By that time Langdon was up, and starting a fire.
Langdon frequently reminded himself that such mornings as this had made him disappoint the doctors and rob the grave.

Just eight years ago this June he had come into the North for the first time, thin-chested and with a bad lung.

"You can go if you insist, young man," one of the doctors had told him, "but you're going to your own funeral." And now he had a five-inch expansion and was as tough as a knot.

The first rose-tints of the sun were creeping over the mountain-tops; the air was filled with the sweetness of flowers, and dew, and growing things, and his lungs drew in deep breaths of oxygen laden with the tonic and perfume of balsam.
He was more demonstrative than his companion in the joyousness of this wild life.

It made him want to shout, and sing, and whistle.