Many cattle had been butchered at this place in the fall of the year, and the offal made a goodly heap.  The three fellow-voyagers of Edwin Bentham and wife gazed upon this deposit, did a little mental arithmetic, caught a certain glimpse of a bonanza, and decided to remain.  And all winter they sold sacks of bones and frozen hides to the famished dog-teams.  It was a modest price they asked, a dollar a pound, just as it came.  Six months later, when the sun came back and the Yukon awoke, they buckled on their heavy moneybelts and journeyed back to the Southland, where they yet live and lie mightily about the Klondike they never saw.

But Edwin Bentham—­he was an indolent fellow, and had he not been possessed of a wife, would have gladly joined issued in the dog-meat speculation.  As it was, she played upon his vanity, told him how great and strong he was, how a man such as he certainly was could overcome all obstacles and of a surety obtain the Golden Fleece.  So he squared his jaw, sold his share in the bones and hides for a sled and one dog, and turned his snowshoes to the north.  Needless to state, Grace Bentham’s snowshoes never allowed his tracks to grow cold.  Nay, ere their tribulations had seen three days, it was the man who followed in the rear, and the woman who broke trail in advance.  Of course, if anybody hove in sight, the position was instantly reversed.  Thus did his manhood remain virgin to the travelers who passed like ghosts on the silent trail.  There are such men in this world.

How such a man and such a woman came to take each other for better and for worse is unimportant to this narrative.  These things are familiar to us all, and those people who do them, or even question them too closely, are apt to lose a beautiful faith which is known as Eternal Fitness.

Edwin Bentham was a boy, thrust by mischance into a man’s body,—­a boy who could complacently pluck a butterfly, wing from wing, or cower in abject terror before a lean, nervy fellow, not half his size.  He was a selfish cry-baby, hidden behind a man’s mustache and stature, and glossed over with a skin-deep veneer of culture and conventionality.  Yes; he was a clubman and a society man, the sort that grace social functions and utter inanities with a charm and unction which is indescribable; the sort that talk big, and cry over a toothache; the sort that put more hell into a woman’s life by marrying her than can the most graceless libertine that ever browsed in forbidden pastures.  We meet these men every day, but we rarely know them for what they are.  Second to marrying them, the best way to get this knowledge is to eat out of the same pot and crawl under the same blanket with them for—­well, say a week; no greater margin is necessary.

To see Grace Bentham, was to see a slender, girlish creature; to know her, was to know a soul which dwarfed your own, yet retained all the elements of the eternal feminine.  This was the woman who urged and encouraged her husband in his Northland quest, who broke trail for him when no one was looking, and cried in secret over her weakling woman’s body.