had managed to maintain life, had 

 smouldered for hours and then burst 

 forth. There is no crime so black 

 in camp life short of murder as 

 " sett ing the woods on fire." Bert 

 had taken all precaution, but how 

 convince the host of that when the 

 flames were crackling merrily and 

 spreading every moment? Fortun- 

 ately the mischief had but just 

 begun, and an hour's hard work was 

 sufficient to extinguish every spark 

 beyond the possibility of a revival. 



This disgrace coupled with the 

 disappointment already dealt the 

 camp by me added the finishing 

 touch to my present purpose. 



Henceforth there was no pity and 

 no sentiment. My soul was no longer 

 open to the beauty of the evening. 

 It may have been beautiful, I only 

 remember that it was cold, and that 

 I sat in the middle of the canoe, gun 

 in lap, alert for a chance to use it, 

 as George propelled us swiftly, 

 silently to a little bay in Daly's Lake 

 that was half choked by bog and 

 rank marsh grass. 



The sun had set, but there was 

 plenty of half-light. I scanned the 



