Last night, or rather in that black part of the early day when they had gone to bed, Father Roland had warned him to make no noise in the morning; that they would let David sleep until noon; that he was sick, worn out, and needed rest.  And there he stood now in the doorway of his room, even before the fire was started—­looking five years younger than he looked last night, nodding cheerfully.

Thoreau grinned.

“Boo-jou, m’sieu,” he said in his Cree-French.  “My order was to make no noise and to let you sleep,” and he nodded toward the Missioner’s room.

“The sun woke me,” said David.  “Come here.  I want you to see it!”

Thoreau went and stood beside him, and David pointed to the one window of his room, which faced the rising sun.  The window was covered with frost, and the frost as they looked at it was like a golden fire.

“I think that was what woke me,” he said.  “At least my eyes were on it when I opened them.  It is wonderful!”

“It is very cold, and the frost is thick,” said Thoreau.  “It will go quickly after I have built a fire, m’sieu.  And then you will see the sun—­the real sun.”

David watched him as he built the fire.  The first crackling of it sent a comfort through him.  He had slept well, so soundly that not once had he roused himself during his six hours in bed.  It was the first time he had slept like that in months.  His blood tingled with a new warmth.  He had no headache.  There was not that dull pain behind his eyes.  He breathed more easily—­the air passed like a tonic into his lungs.  It was as if those wonderful hours of sleep had wrested some deadly obstruction out of his veins.  The fire crackled.  It roared up the big chimney.  The jack-pine knots, heavy with pitch, gave to the top of the stove a rosy glow.  Thoreau stuffed more fuel into the blazing firepot, and the glow spread cheerfully, and with the warmth that was filling the cabin there mingled the sweet scent of the pine-pitch and burning balsam.  David rubbed his hands.  He was rubbing them when Marie came into the room, plaiting the second of her two great ropes of shining black hair.  He nodded.  Marie smiled, showing her white teeth, her dark eyes clear as a fawn’s.  He felt within him a strange rejoicing—­for Thoreau.  Thoreau was a lucky man.  He could see proof of it in the Cree woman’s face.  Both were lucky.  They were happy—­a man and woman together, as things should be.

Thoreau had broken the ice in a pail and now he filled the wash-basin for him.  Ice water for his morning ablution was a new thing for David.  But he plunged his face into it recklessly.  Little particles of ice pricked his skin, and the chill of the water seemed to sink into his vitals.  It was a sudden change from water as hot as he could stand—­to this.  His teeth clicked as he wiped himself on the burlap towelling.  Marie used the basin next, and then Thoreau.  When Marie had dried her face