her voice was steady and without emotion as she said "Good
morning." It was as if he had dreamed the thing that had passed
the night before. There was neither glow of tenderness, of regret,
nor of memory in her eyes. Her smile was wan and forced. He knew
that she was calling upon his chivalry to forget that one moment
before the door of her tent. He bowed, and said simply:

"I'm afraid you didn't sleep well, Josephine. Did I disturb you
when I stole out of camp?"

"I heard nothing," she replied. "Nothing but the cries of that
terrible bird out on the lake. I'm afraid I didn't sleep much."

The atmosphere of the camp that morning weighted Philip's heart
with a heaviness which he could not throw off. He performed his
share of the work with Jean, and tried to talk to him, but
Croisset would only reply to his most pointed remarks. He
whistled. He shouted out a song back in the timber as he cut an
armful of dry birch, and he returned to Jean and the girl
laughing, the wood piled to his chin and the axe under his arm.
Neither showed that they had heard him. The meal was eaten in a
chilly silence that filled him with deepest foreboding. Josephine
seemed at ease. She talked with him when he spoke to her, but
there seemed now to be a mysterious restraint in every word that
she uttered. She excused herself before Jean and he were through,
and went to her tent. A moment later Philip rose and went down to
his canoe.

In the rubber sack was the last of his tobacco. He was fumbling
for it when his heart gave a great jump. A voice had spoken softly