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 them; those hills without a sear. In that big lake far up the valley—we call it the Lake of the Islands—lie the bones of my people. For many, many long snows, since the big battle when we took the country from the Crees, it has been the home of the Makwa, and now the Iron Trail will come through the break in the hills and The Beautiful Valley will vanish. What your eyes see to-night will be hidden by the smoke of the burning forests. The thunder of the white man's powder will echo among its hills and its lakes lie befouled by the camps of the wood-choppers. And later the traders will come and corrupt my young men and women with their poisoned water.

"But it is no good. I am old and the white men are strong."

With a gesture of despair David turned his tragic eyes from the land of his fathers and covered his face with his hands.

Gordon tried to explain how the government had made laws for the building of the new road; how there were to be no forest-fires started by careless workmen; how the whiskey-trader would be banished from the Right-of-Way; but in his heart he knew that David was right. The magic of The Beautiful Valley would vanish at the coming of the Iron Trail.

Slowly the riot of pagan color faded from the western sky, and twilight followed. But not until dusk masked the valley did the watchers on the mountain stir.

In the middle of October, when the leaves of the