"You belong to the dawn," he said.
Carrie laughed, a laugh of frank amusement, untouched by coquetry. "Oh, Jim! You're not often romantic."
"I suppose that is so," he agreed. "Anyhow, my feeling was quite sincere. You are like the dawn."
She turned her head for a moment and then said carelessly: "Let's look if the bannocks I made are cooked."
Jim scattered a pile of wood ashes and lifted two or three large thick cakes from the hot stones beneath. He broke off a piece from one and when it cooled began to eat.
"I imagine this is the best bannock that was ever made in the bush," he remarked.
"Do you feel you must be nice?"
"No," said Jim. "In a way, I don't care if I'm nice or not. The bannock is first grade; I think that's all that matters. If you don't mind, I'll take another bit."
Carrie laughed. "Looks as if one could make you happy by giving you things to eat! But let's see if the trout are fried; I've got the spider full."
She put the fish on a big tin plate and while she made coffee Jim beat a piece of iron that hung from a branch. The sharp, ringing notes pierced the shadows and half-dressed men came out of the shack and plunged down the slope to the river.