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 had been a source of interest and delight upon which Gordon never ceased to draw.

And now, as he sat there by the fire, his doubts had at last crystallized into a deep suspicion of his friend. Well, a day or two would tell the story, he mused, and with a "Good-night, David," turned into his blanket.

It was the afternoon of the next day. They had climbed to a shoulder of the big hill Gordon had seen far down the river, and sat for a space smoking. North and south at their feet ran the winding valley of the Flaming River. Low hills of spruce and fir splashed with the yellow and gold of birch and poplar rolled to the eastern horizon where the pale blue of the watershed ridges of the Kabenakagami merged in a hazy sky. In places, where silver reaches of river met the yellow birch forests, the stream seemed suddenly to burst into flame.

"Now, I know how the river got its name. It looks afire down there, David!" exclaimed Gordon. "It's certainly a rare country."

"I show you one at sunset," said the old Indian, whose brooding eyes were blind to the beauty of the valley.

Then something impelled John Gordon to ask:

"David, why did you take me into that swamp yesterday and lose me?"

For an instant the Indian did not answer; then, turning, he rested his hand on his friend's knee and said in Ojibway:

"Because, one sleep ago, the face of the sun was