the water seemed to sink into his
vitals. It was a sudden change from water as hot as he could stand--to
this. His teeth clicked as he wiped himself on the burlap towelling.
Marie used the basin next, and then Thoreau. When Marie had dried her
face he noted the old-rose flush in her cheeks, the fire of rich, red
blood glowing under her dark skin. Thoreau himself blubbered and spouted
in his ice-water bath like a joyous porpoise, and he rubbed himself on
the burlap until the two apple-red spots above his beard shone like the
glow that had spread over the top of the stove. David found himself
noticing these things--very small things though they were; he discovered
himself taking a sudden and curious interest in events and things of no
importance at all, even in the quick, deft slash of the Frenchman's long
knife as he cut up the huge whitefish that was to be their breakfast. He
watched Marie as she wallowed the thick slices in yellow corn-meal, and
listened to the first hissing sputter of them as they were dropped into
the hot grease of the skillet. And the odour of the fish, taken only
yesterday from the net which Thoreau kept in the frozen lake, made him
hungry. This was unusual. It was unexpected as other things that had
happened. It puzzled him.

He returned to his room, with a suspicion in his mind that he should put
on a collar and tie, and his coat. He changed his mind when he saw the
photograph in its newspaper wrapping on the table. In another moment it
was in his hands. Now, with day in the room, the sun shining, he
expected to see a change. But there was no change in her; she was there,
as he had left her last night; the question was in her eyes, unspoken
words still on her lips. Then, suddenly, it swept upon him where he had
been in those first hours of peaceful slumber that had come to
him--beside a quiet, dark pool--gently whispering forests about him--an
angel standing close to him, on a rock, shrouded in her hair--watching
over him. A thrill passed through him. Was it possible?... He did not
finish the question. He could not bring himself to ask whether this
picture--some strange spirit it might possess--had reached out to him,
quieted him, made him sleep, brought him dreams that were like a healing
medicine. And yet....

He remembered that in one of his leather bags there was a magnifying
glass, and he assured himself that he was merely curious--most casually
curious--as he hunted it out from among his