ndertook to help cook," she resumed, and smiled. "It's curious how
often you can make good by just holding on! Now, however, you and Jake
can go away."

They went off, but presently Jim sat down and lighted his pipe.
Although he approved Carrie's resolve to be useful, he felt annoyed.
She had pretty white hands; he did not like her dressing trout. Yet
somebody must cook, and now the gang was two men short, he did not know
whom he could spare. It was not a job for Carrie, but she was
obstinate. There was no use in going back, because she could beat him
in argument, and he went to his bed of fir branches in a bark shack the
men had built. Carrie had a tent, with a double roof that would keep
out rain and sun. Jim had seen to this, although the tent was
expensive.

He got up rather early, but when he went out a big fire burned between
the parallel hearth logs. Aromatic wood-smoke hung about the camp in a
thin blue haze. There was an appetizing smell of cooking, and Carrie
got up from beside the logs as he advanced. She gave him a cheerful
glance, and then stood looking past him to the east. Mist streamed out
of the deep valley and rolled across the climbing pines; in the
distance, snow cut, softly blue, against the dazzling sky. Carrie
looked fresh and vigorous. There was color in her face and her eyes
were bright.

"How long have you been about?" Jim asked.

"An hour," she said, smiling. "I was often up at daybreak at home, and
it was different there. The street looked mean, the store smelt stale,
and all was dreary. Sun-up is glorious in the bush."

"Sometimes! I have wakened half-frozen and felt most too scared to
look about."

"Ah," said Carrie, "I was scared last night, but last night has gone
and can't come back. I'll own I don't like the dark."

Jim studied her. Her pose was unconsciously graceful; her tall figure
and plain gray dress harmonized with the background of straight trunks
and rocks. Her head was slightly tilted back as she breathed the
resin-scented air. Jim thought she looked strangely virile and alert.

"You belong to the dawn," he said.

Carrie laughed, a laugh of frank amusement, untouched by coquetry.
"Oh, Jim! You're not often romantic."

"I suppose that is so," he agreed. "Anyhow, my feeling was quite
sincere. You _are_ like the dawn."

She turned her head for a moment and then said carelessly: "Let's look
if the bannocks I made are cooked."

Jim scattered a