Yellow reflections touched the river, and the larches shone like pale gold against the dark spruce wood; the brush along the bank was saffron and red. The evening was cold but very calm, and the river was low. On the distant Rockies the snow had begun to freeze, the thunderstorms and northwest winds were gone, and Indian summer brooded over the lonely North.
Fothergill thought the cold bracing. Winter was not yet, and the frost was light. For a time, the North was not austere, but had put on tranquil, exotic beauty. The shrunken rapid throbbed on a soothing note, and the dark spruce branches were still; the willows by the muskeg had stopped trembling. All was serene, and Fothergill felt his uniform and his rifle jarred.
Indian summer was the season for rest and romantic dreams. One had b
