FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 23 



toward Smoky. The head of the great cape was 

 cloud-capped, but this made it seem all the 

 more heaven-reaching. 



Turning to the left from the road, we de- 

 scended to the shore of the bay, and found our- 

 selves just opposite the long white cobblestone 

 bar which we had seen afar off. Between us 

 and its tip lay a deep channel which connected 

 St. Anne's Bay with the ocean. On the shore 

 was a boat, and an impatient ferryman stood by 

 it watching us descend. " Where are you go- 

 ing?" he asked, his keen eyes searching us. 

 " Northward," I answered. " Like the wild 

 geese," he said, with a mocking laugh, and 

 pushed off into the current. He was Torquil 

 McLean, well known to all who travel on the 

 North Shore, and holding in his face many a 

 suggestion of the Highland stock from which 

 he is descended, and the wild north country 

 in which he lives, and its counterpart in which 

 his race was moidded. His strong arms soon 

 brought us to the bar, upon which two wagons, 

 several people, and a sheep were awaiting his 

 arrival. 



A road, scarcely perceptible at first glance, 

 lay along the bar towards the beginning of the 

 North Shore country into which we were ventur- 

 ing. Between us and the north pole there was 

 nothing legally definable as a hotel. This vague 



