humour and satisfaction.

One after another there came now the sounds that merged dying
night into the birth of day, and for the hundredth time Philip
listened to the wonders that never grew old for him. The laugh of
the loon was no longer a raucous, mocking cry of exultation and
triumph, but a timid, question note--half drowsy, half filled with
fear; and from the treetops came the still lower notes of the
owls, their night's hunt done, and seeking now the densest covers
for the day. And then, from deep back in the forests, came a cry
that was filled with both hunger and defiance--the wailing howl of
a wolf. With these night sounds came the first cheep, cheep, cheep
of the little brush sparrow, still drowsy and uncertain, but
faintly heralding the day. Wings fluttered in the spruce and cedar
thickets. From far overhead came the honking of Canada geese
flying southward. And one by one the stars went out, and in the
south-eastern skies a gray hand reached up slowly over the forests
and wiped darkness from the earth. Not until then did Philip rise
from his seat and turn his face toward camp.

He tried to throw off the feeling of oppression that still clung
to him. By the time he reached camp he had partly succeeded. The
fire was burning brightly again, and Jean was busy preparing
breakfast. To his surprise he saw Josephine standing outside of
her tent. She had finished brushing her hair, and was plaiting it
in a long braid. He had wondered how they would meet that morning.
His face flushed warm as he approached her. The thrill of their
kiss was still on his lips, and his heart sent the memory of it
burning in his eyes as he came up, Josephine turned to greet him.
She was pale and calm. There were dark lines under her eyes, and