She was awakened by a blaze of sunshine pouring into the tent, a smell of fried bacon and Trafford's voice telling her to get up. "They've gone on with the first loads," he said. "Get up, wrap yourself in a blanket, and come and bathe in the river. It's as cold as ice." She blinked at him. "Aren't you stiff?" she asked. "I was stiffer before I bathed," he said. She took the tin he offered her. (They weren't to see china cups again for a year.) "It's woman's work getting tea," she said as she drank. "You can't be a squaw all at once," said Trafford. § 3 After Marjorie had taken her dip, dried roughly behind a bush, twisted her hair into a pigtail and coiled it under her hat, she amused herself and Trafford as they clambered up through rocks and willows to the tent again by cataloguing her apparatus of bath and toilette at Sussex Square and tracing just when and how she had parted from each item on the way to this place. "But I _say!_" she cried, with a sudden, sharp note of dismay, "we haven't soap! This is our last cake almost. I never thought of soap." "Nor I," said Trafford. He spoke again presently. "We don't turn back for soap," he said. "We don't turn back for anything," said Marjorie. "Still--I didn't count on a soapless winter." "I'll manage something," said Trafford, a little doubtfully. "Trust a chemist...." That day they finished the portage and came out upon a wide lake with sloping shores and a distant view of snow-topped mountains, a lake so shallow that at times their loaded canoes scraped on the glaciated rock below and they had to alter their course. They camped in a lurid sunset; the night was warm and mosquitoes were troublesome, and towards morning came a thunderstorm and wind and rain. The dawn broke upon a tearing race of waves and a wild drift of slanting rain sweeping across the lake before a gale. Marjorie peered out at this as one peers out under the edge of an umbrella. It was manifestly impossible to go on, and they did nothing that day but run up a canvas shelter for the men and shift the tent behind a thicket of trees out of the full force of the wind. The men squatted stoically, and smoked and yarned. Everything got coldly wet, and for the most part the Traffords sat under the tent and stared blankly at this summer day in Labrador. "Now," said Trafford, "we ought to begin talking." "There's nothing much to do else," said Marjorie. "Only one can't begin," said Trafford. He was silent for a time. "We're getting out of things," he said....