He was
very reserved where I was concerned. I wanted to ask him a
thousand questions, but I did not dare. George was always the
gentle, fun-loving, sunny-tempered man my husband had admired.
Our camp was perhaps 100 feet above the river which here came down
from the northeast round the foot of Bald Mountain, and less than
half a mile below us bent away to the southeast. At the bend a
tributary stream came in from the northwest to merge itself in the
stronger tide, and together they flowed straight on at the foot of
a long, dark-wooded ridge. Here at this stream our portage route
led out from the river.
When the showers had passed we had supper, and as we sat at our
meal the sun came out again, throwing a golden glow over all.
Clouds lay like delicate veils along the hill-sides, sometimes
dipping almost to their feet. Walking back along the edge of the
terrace I watched till they gathered thick again and darkness came
down over all. It was very wild and beautiful, but as an
exquisite, loved form from which the spirit has fled. The sense of
life, of mystery, and magic seemed gone, and I wondered if the time
could come when beauty would cease to be pain.
When I returned to camp the men had gone to their tent. A tiny
fire was still burning, and I sat watching it till the rain came
and drove me to my little shelter again.
