In the triangle between the junction of two streams was a marshy area, thickly grown with bushes and slim trees, that thrust their roots deep down through the mire into more solid soil.
The marsh was perhaps two acres in extent; right in the heart of it was a piece of firm earth about forty feet square and here Henry meant to build his lodge.

He alone knew the path across the marsh over fallen logs lying near enough to each other to be reached by an agile man, and on the tiny island all his possessions would be safe.
He worked a week at his hut, and it was done, a little lean-to of bark and saplings, partly lined with skins, but proof against rain or snow.
On the floor he spread the skins and furs of animals that he killed, and on the walls he hung trophies of the hunt.
Two weeks after his house was finished he used it at its full value.
Summer was gone and autumn was coming, a great rain poured and the wind blew cold.

Dead leaves fell in showers from the trees, and the boughs swaying before the gale creaked dismally against each other.

But it all gave to Henry a supreme sense of physical comfort.

He lay in his snug hut, and, pulling a little to one side the heavy buffalo robe that hung over the doorway, watched the storm rage through the wilderness.