It is not given the world to know what promises he made and what lies he told—­the Sisters never gossip; but when he returned, upon his swarthy chest there was a brass crucifix, and in his canoe his niece Madeline.  That night there was a grand wedding and a potlach; so that for two days to follow there was no fishing done by the village.  But in the morning Madeline shook the dust of the Lower River from her moccasins, and with her husband, in a poling-boat, went to live on the Upper River in a place known as the Lower Country.  And in the years which followed she was a good wife, sharing her husband’s hardships and cooking his food.  And she kept him in straight trails, till he learned to save his dust and to work mightily.  In the end, he struck it rich and built a cabin in Circle City; and his happiness was such that men who came to visit him in his home-circle became restless at the sight of it and envied him greatly.

But the Northland began to mature and social amenities to make their appearance.

Hitherto, the Southland had sent forth its sons; but it now belched forth a new exodus—­this time of its daughters.  Sisters and wives they were not; but they did not fail to put new ideas in the heads of the men, and to elevate the tone of things in ways peculiarly their own.  No more did the squaws gather at the dances, go roaring down the center in the good, old Virginia reels, or make merry with jolly ‘Dan Tucker.’  They fell back on their natural stoicism and uncomplainingly watched the rule of their white sisters from their cabins.

Then another exodus came over the mountains from the prolific Southland.

This time it was of women that became mighty in the land.  Their word was law; their law was steel.  They frowned upon the Indian wives, while the other women became mild and walked humbly.  There were cowards who became ashamed of their ancient covenants with the daughters of the soil, who looked with a new distaste upon their dark-skinned children; but there were also others—­men—­who remained true and proud of their aboriginal vows.  When it became the fashion to divorce the native wives.  Cal Galbraith retained his manhood, and in so doing felt the heavy hand of the women who had come last, knew least, but who ruled the land.

One day, the Upper Country, which lies far above Circle City, was pronounced rich.  Dog-teams carried the news to Salt Water; golden argosies freighted the lure across the North Pacific; wires and cables sang with the tidings; and the world heard for the first time of the Klondike River and the Yukon Country.  Cal Galbraith had lived the years quietly.  He had been a good husband to Madeline, and she had blessed him.  But somehow discontent fell upon him; he felt vague yearnings for his own kind, for the life he had been shut out from—­a general sort of desire, which men sometimes feel, to break out and taste the prime of living.  Besides, there drifted down the river wild rumors of the wonderful El Dorado, glowing descriptions of the city of logs and tents, and ludicrous accounts of the che-cha-quas who had rushed in and were stampeding the whole country.