"It is all right," laughed Ainley, "when you can journey through it comfortably as we are doing."
"It must have its attractions even when comfort is not possible," said the girl musingly, "for the men who live here live as nature meant man to live."
"On straight moose-meat—sometimes," laughed Ainley. "With bacon and beans and flour brought in from the outside for luxuries."
"I was not thinking of the food," answered the girl quickly. "I was thinking of the toil, the hardship—the Homeric labours of those who face the hazards of the North."
"Yes," agreed the man, "the labours are certainly Homeric, and there are men who like the life well enough, who have made fortunes here and have gone back to their kind in Montreal, New York, London, only to find that civilization has lost its attraction for them."
"I can understand that," was the quick reply. "There is something in the silence and wildness of vast spaces which gets into the blood. Only yesterday I was thinking how small and tame the lawns at home would look after this." She swept a hand in a half-circle, and then gave a little laugh. "I believe I could enjoy living up here."
Ainley laughed with her. "A year of this," he said, lightly, "and you would begin to hunger for parties and theatres and dances and books—and you would look to the Southland as to Eden."
"Do you really think so?" she asked seriously.
"I am sure of it," he answered with conviction.
"But I am not so sure," she answered slowly. "Deep down there must be something aboriginal in me, for I find myself thrilling to all sorts of wild things. Last night I was talking with Mrs. Rodwell. Her husband used to be the trader up at Kootlach, and she was telling me of a white man who lived up there as a chief. He was a man of education, a graduate of Oxford and he preferred that life to the life of civilization. It seems he died, and was buried as a chief, wrapped in furs, a hunting spear by his side, all the tribe chanting a wild funeral chant! Do you know, as she described it, the dark woods, the barbaric burying, the wild chant, I was able to vision it all—and my sympathies were with the man, who, in spite of Oxford, had chosen to live his own life in his own way."