“In a little while, above the timber—­the tree line is low on those Alaska mountainsides—­we came to a broad, grassy bog set deep between two spurs, and she was forced to give me the lead.  Then the canyon walls grew steeper, lifting into rugged knobs.  Sometimes I lost the prospector’s trail in a rock-choked torrent and picked it up again, where it hung like a thin ribbon on a heather-grown slope; but it never wound or doubled if there was foothold ahead.  It led up stairs of graywacke, along the brink of slaty cliffs that dropped sheer, hundreds of feet to the stream below.  Still she kept on pluckily, and whenever I turned to help her, I found her there at my elbow, ready.  Now and then in breadths of level, where it was possible to walk abreast, we talked a little, but most of the distance was covered in silence.  I felt more and more sorry for her.  She was so eager, patient, watchful, forever scanning the pitches on either side.  And if the setter made a sudden break, scenting a bare perhaps, or starting a ptarmigan, she always stopped, waiting with a light in her face; and when he jogged back to her heels, the expectation settled into patience again.

“Finally we came to a rill where I urged her to rest; and when I had spread my blanket on a boulder, she took the seat, leaning comfortably against a higher rock, and watched me while I opened the tin box in which Sandy had stored my lunch.  She told me my cook made a good sandwich and knew how to fry a bird Southern fashion.  Then she spoke of the Virginia town where she had lived before her marriage.  The trip west had been her wedding journey, and her husband, who was an architect, had intended to open an office in a new town on Puget Sound, but at Seattle he caught the Alaska fever.

“‘The future looked very certain and brilliant then,’ she said, with her smile, ’but as long as I have my husband, nothing else counts.  I could live out my life, be happy here in this wilderness, anywhere, with him.  If I could only have him back—­as he used to be.’”

Tisdale’s voice softened, vibrating gently, so that the pathos of it all must have impressed the coldest listener.  The woman beside him trembled and lifted her hand to her throat.

“I can’t remember all she told me,” he went on, “but her husband had left her in Seattle when he started north, and the next season, when he failed to return for her, she had sailed to Seward in search of him.  She had tried to influence him to give up the placer, when she saw the change in him; at least to go down to one of the coast towns and take up the work for which he had prepared, but he had delayed, with promises, until he was beyond listening to her.

“‘Of course he may stumble on riches any hour, as he believes,’ she said finally, ’but not all the comforts or luxuries in the world are worth the price.’  She did not break down, as she had in the cabin, but somehow I could hear the tears falling in her voice.  I can yet, and see them big and shining deep in her eyes.