Dill looked at him hesitatingly.  “Mrs. Bridger,” he observed slowly, “has received news that her husband is seriously ill.  There will not be another boat going north until spring, so that it will be impossible for her to go to him.  I am extremely sorry.”  Then, as if that statement seemed to him too bald, in view of the fact that they had never discussed Mama Joy, he added, “It is very hard for Flora.  The letter held out little hope of recovery.”

Billy, though he turned a deep red and acquired three distinct creases between his eyebrows, did not even make use of his favorite expletive.  After a while he said irritably that a man was a damn fool to go off like that and leave a wife—­and family—­behind him.  He ought either to stay at home or take them with him.

He did not mean that he wished her father had taken Flora to Klondyke, though he openly implied that he wished Mama Joy had gone.  He knew he was inconsistent, but he also knew—­and there was comfort as well as discomfort in the knowledge—­that Dill understood him very well.

It seemed to Billy, in the short time that the round-up crew was camped by the creek, that no situation could be more intolerable than the one he must endure.  He could not see Flora without having Mama Joy present also—­or if he did find Flora alone, Mama Joy was sure to appear very shortly.  If he went near the house there was no escaping her.  And when he once asked Flora to ride with him he straightway discovered that Mama Joy had developed a passion for riding and went along.  Flora had only time to murmur a rapid sentence or two while Mama Joy was hunting her gloves.

“Mama Joy has been taking the Ladies’ Home Journal” she said ironically, “and she has been converted to the idea that a girl must never be trusted alone with a man.  I’ve acquired a chaperon now!  Have you begun to study diplomacy yet, Billy Boy?”

“Does she chapyron yuh this fervent when the Pilgrim’s the man?” countered Billy resentfully.

He did not get an answer, because Mama Joy found her gloves too soon, but he learned his lesson and did not ask Flora to ride with him again.  Nevertheless, he tried surreptitiously to let her know the reason and so prevent any misunderstanding.

He knew that Flora was worrying over her father, and he would like to have cheered her all he could; but he had no desire to cheer Mama Joy as well—­he would not even give her credit for needing cheer.  So he stayed away from them both and gave his time wholly to the horse-breaking and to affairs in general, and ate and slept in camp to make his avoidance of the house complete.

Sometimes, of a night when he could not sleep, he wondered why it is that one never day-dreams unpleasant obstacles and disheartening failures into one’s air castles.  Why was it that, just when it had seemed to him that his dream was miraculously come true; when he found himself complete master of the Double-Crank where for years he had been merely one of the men; when the One Girl was also settled indefinitely in the household he called his home; when he knew she liked him, and had faith to believe he could win her to something better than friendship—­all these good things should be enmeshed in a tangle of untoward circumstances?