“How gay you look, Katherine!” exclaimed Mrs. Burton, as her sister came dancing into the kitchen, where she was making bread.  “But what a pity to put on that scarlet skirt if you are going to bring fish home!”

“I shan’t spoil it, or if I do I will wear it spoiled until it drops into rags,” replied Katherine.  “I call it my happiness skirt, and I wear it only when I feel happy.  To-day the winter has somehow got into my bones or up in my head, and I feel as light-hearted and reckless as if I had been having oxygen pumped into me by a special contrivance; so plainly this is the proper time for my scarlet skirt.”

“It is so funny that scarlet suits you so well, for you are certainly not a brunette,” Mrs. Burton said, looking at Katherine in warm sisterly admiration.  “But indeed you would look charming in anything.”

Katherine swept her a curtsy.  “Now that is a compliment most flatteringly paid.  Really, Nellie, I don’t see how you can expect me to be properly humble-minded if you say things of that sort, for you are such a dear, sincere little person that every word you speak carries conviction with it.  But Miles is waiting and I must be off.  Don’t worry if we are rather late back, for we must bring as much fish as we can.”

Mrs. Burton left the bread to take care of itself for a while, and, throwing a thick shawl round her shoulders, came out to see the start.  There was only one sledge to-day, but that was piled high with stores of various descriptions, from a barrel of flour to a roll of scarlet flannel, and from canned pineapple to a tin of kerosene.  This last was the light de luxe in that part of the world, fish oil serving for all ordinary purposes of illumination.  Miles looked after the dogs, while Katherine sped on in front, an ice saw and two fish spears carried across her shoulder.  It was just the sort of morning when work was absolute joy, and toil became nothing but the zest of endeavour.  Fresh snow had fallen during the night, but the sun was so bright and warm that the cold had no chance against it.  The winter was advancing, as was evidenced by longer hours of daylight and hotter sunshine; but when night came the frost was more severe than ever, as if loath to loose its grip on the lakes and streams of that wide white land.

Roaring Water Portage had lost all claim to its name for the present.  The river which rushed in summer with a roar over the rocks in rapids was absolutely silent now, and the rocks were merely snow-covered hummocks.  The river above was frozen, there was no water to run down, and all the resonant echoes were dumb.  The silence and the brightness suited Katherine’s mood.  She hurried on in front, so that even the shouts of Miles to the dogs became faint in the distance.  Then her pace decreased as she swung along with a gentle swaying motion, the big frame of her snowshoe never quite lifted from the ground.  When the boatbuilder’s house