From red gold to the rich and lustrous brown of the ripened wintel
berries he marked the marvellous changing of her hair with the
setting of the sun. A quick chill was growing in the air now and
after a little he crept forward and slipped a light blanket about
the slender shoulders. Even then Josephine did not speak, but
looked up at him, and smiled her thanks. In his eyes, his touch,
even his subdued breath, were the whispers of his adoration.

Movement roused Jean from his Indian-like silence. As Philip moved
back, he called:

"It is four o'clock, M'sieur. We will have darkness in an hour.
There is a place to camp and tepee poles ready cut on the point
ahead of us."

Fifteen minutes later Philip ran his canoe ashore close to Jean
Croisset's on a beach of white sand. He could not help seeing
that, from the moment she had answered his question out on the
lake, a change had come over Josephine. For a short time that
afternoon she had risen from out of the thing that oppressed her,
and once or twice there had been almost happiness in her smile and
laughter. Now she seemed to have sunk again under its smothering
grip. It was as if the chill and dismal gloom of approaching night
had robbed her cheeks of colour, and had given a tired droop to
her shoulders as she sat silently, and waited for them to make her
tent comfortable. When it was up, and the blankets spread, she
went in and left them alone, and the last glimpse that he had of
her face left with Philip a cameo-like impression of hopelessness
that made him want to call out her name, yet held him speechless.
He looked closely at Jean as they put up their own tent, and for