"Good work!" Helen cried and dropped her paddle. "A beauty! He'll go two pounds. And you did it well!" Her eyes danced, her red lips parted in a glad smile and there was an excitement in her face, which Taylor had never seen there before, the enthusiasm for play, and as he looked at her, leaning forward, one arm stretched out to touch the trout, he saw a new part of her to dove-tail with her capability at her work, her tenderness with children: she was at that moment, a laughing, spontaneous young animal, lost in admiration of the fish he had caught, and in admiration of him. He knew this last; he could see it in her eyes.
They went downstream under the stars, Helen in the bow, singing in her clear voice the chant of the old French boatmen, picked up when she was a little girl from some woodsman.
They dragged the canoe out together, and their hands touched. It was the first time their flesh had met and a queer thrill ran through Taylor's body. He took his catch and walked with Helen to the door. She bade him good-night and went within very quietly. He watched her and moved on to the men's shanty, heedless of Pauguk who whined at her chain's length as he passed.
Jim Harris was inside, talking to Goddard. His speech was a bit louder than usual, he was a trifle eager, it seemed to John, to have it known that he had come to inquire after teams that would soon be finished with the hardwood logs; a few men and horses were needed at the lower dam, he said.
Beauchamp, the cook, and Harris and another gathered about Taylor and commented on his catch. Goddard did not leave his bunk where he sat, elbows on knees, glowering
