“You do not ask why I came north?” she asked.  “Surely you know.”  They had moved back from the table, and David Payne had returned to his axe-handle.  “Did you get my letter?”

“A last one?  No, I don’t think so.  Most probably it’s trailing around the Birch Creek Country or lying in some trader’s shack on the Lower River.  The way they run the mails in here is shameful.  No order, no system, no—­”

“Don’t be wooden, Dave!  Help me!” She spoke sharply now, with an assumption of authority which rested upon the past.  “Why don’t you ask me about myself?  About those we knew in the old times?  Have you no longer any interest in the world?  Do you know that my husband is dead?”

“Indeed, I am sorry.  How long—­”

“David!” She was ready to cry with vexation, but the reproach she threw into her voice eased her.

“Did you get any of my letters?  You must have got some of them, though you never answered.”

“Well, I didn’t get the last one, announcing, evidently, the death of your husband, and most likely others went astray; but I did get some.  I—­er—­read them aloud to Winapie as a warning—­that is, you know, to impress upon her the wickedness of her white sisters.  And I—­er—­think she profited by it.  Don’t you?”

She disregarded the sting, and went on.  “In the last letter, which you did not receive, I told, as you have guessed, of Colonel Sayther’s death.  That was a year ago.  I also said that if you did not come out to me, I would go in to you.  And as I had often promised, I came.”

“I know of no promise.”

“In the earlier letters?”

“Yes, you promised, but as I neither asked nor answered, it was unratified.  So I do not know of any such promise.  But I do know of another, which you, too, may remember.  It was very long ago.”  He dropped the axe-handle to the floor and raised his head.  “It was so very long ago, yet I remember it distinctly, the day, the time, every detail.  We were in a rose garden, you and I,—­your mother’s rose garden.  All things were budding, blossoming, and the sap of spring was in our blood.  And I drew you over—­it was the first—­and kissed you full on the lips.  Don’t you remember?”

“Don’t go over it, Dave, don’t!  I know every shameful line of it.  How often have I wept!  If you only knew how I have suffered—­”

“You promised me then—­ay, and a thousand times in the sweet days that followed.  Each look of your eyes, each touch of your hand, each syllable that fell from your lips, was a promise.  And then—­how shall I say?—­there came a man.  He was old—­old enough to have begotten you—­and not nice to look upon, but as the world goes, clean.  He had done no wrong, followed the letter of the law, was respectable.  Further, and to the point, he possessed some several paltry mines,—­a score; it does not matter:  and he owned a few miles of lands, and engineered deals, and clipped coupons.  He—­”