Not far from the rugged and storm-whipped north shore of Lake
Superior, and south of the Kaministiqua, yet not as far south as
the Rainy River waterway, there lay a paradise lost in the heart of
a wilderness world - and in that paradise "a little corner of
hell." That was what the girl had called it once upon a time, when
sobbing out the shame and the agony of it to herself. That was
before Peter had come to leaven the drab of her life. But the hell
was still there. One would not have guessed its existence, standing
at the bald top of Cragg's Ridge this wonderful thirtieth day of
May. In the whiteness of winter one could look off over a hundred
square miles of freezing forest and swamp and river country, with
the gleam of ice-covered lakes here and there, fringed by their
black spruce and cedar and balsam - a country of storm, of deep
snows, and men and women whose blood ran red with the thrill that
the hardship and the never-ending adventure of the wild.
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