_Friday, July 28th._—Continuance of the fine weather, running under Scotch boiler only all night and day. The engineers working on the Almys. The Chief to-night fears the damage is more serious than at first anticipated. At intervals during the day I have been comparing the readings of the log with the revolutions of the engines at varying speeds; with results fully up to my expectation. Another incipient fire in the same place was immediately extinguished, and I have had portions of the beams cut away and other means taken to prevent a recurrence. At supper time we passed four or five small bergs which had come through the straits. Fine weather, with smooth sea till evening, when the fog shut down on us. Just before this, two large steamers passed us heading for the straits, and one hung out the signal, “Wish you a pleasant voyage,” to which we replied, “Good-bye.” It is light now till 9 P. M., and it seems good to be again approaching the Arctic day. _Saturday, July 29th._—A dirty night. In the dense fog, which filled the Belle Isle graveyard of ships, Point Amour Light was invisible, until apparently hanging over our mast head, and then it was a matter of feeling our way from fog horn to fog horn through the Straits. We could hear two or three large steamers that were laying to, blowing their double blasts; and numbers of bergs added to the uncertainty and anxiety of the passage. Captain Bartlett and myself up all night. At breakfast time just north of Chateau Bay we ran out of the wall of fog into bright sunshine, and a field of beautiful icebergs. Cape York is 1500 miles from here. Running northward all day, just off the Labrador coast, in alternate fog and sunshine. Have written two or three brief personal letters which we shall leave at Domino Run to-night, before heading across Davis Strait for Greenland. This is necessitated by the fog having shut us out of Chateau Bay and Battle Harbour, from which place our passing may have been reported to the home folks. _Sunday, July 30th._—Ran into Domino Run late last night without dropping anchor, and Captain Bartlett pulled ashore with the letters, coming off again at once. He learned that the ice was against the coast as far down as Cape Harrigan. Going into the Run it was clear as a bell, and while lying to, waiting for the Captain’s return, the stars twinkled as in winter, a biting wind whistled through the rigging, and a brilliant curtain aurora waved across the northern sky, while ashore the dogs were howling merrily. Pacing the bridge, these familiar sights and sounds stirred me with the call of the polar mystery. Might it not be possible that this breath, this presence, as it were, of the land of the “Great Night” was reaching down far beyond its usual haunts to greet and welcome my coming?