ou 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 bright