e dusk of that first day Alan found himself ten miles up the coast.
He was alone, for Olaf Ericksen had gone in the opposite direction. It
was a different Alan who watched the setting sun dipping into the
western sea, with the golden slopes of the mountains reflecting its
glory behind him. It was as if he had passed through a great sickness,
and up from the earth of his own beloved land had crept slowly into his
body and soul a new understanding of life. There was despair in his
face, but it was a gentler thing now. The harsh lines of an obstinate
will were gone from about his mouth, his eyes no longer concealed their
grief, and there was something in his attitude of a man chastened by a
consuming fire. He retraced his steps through deepening twilight, and
with each mile of his questing return there grew in him that something
which had come to him out of death, and which he knew would never leave
him. And with this change the droning softness of the night itself
seemed to whisper that the sea would not give up its dead.

Olaf and Sandy McCormick and Sandy's wife were in the cabin when he
returned at midnight. He was exhausted. Seven months in the States had
softened him, he explained. He did not inquire how successful the others
had been. He knew. The woman's eyes told him, the almost mothering
eagerness in them when he came through the door. She had coffee and food
ready for him, and he forced himself to eat. Sandy gave a report of what
he had done, and Olaf smoked his pipe and tried to speak cheerfully of
the splendid weather that was coming tomorrow. Not one of them spoke of
Mary Standish.

Alan felt the strain they were under and knew his presence was the cause
of it, so he lighted his own pipe after eating and talked to Ellen
McCormick about the splendor of the mountains back of Eyak River, and
how fortunate she was to have her home in this little corner of
paradise. He caught a flash of something unspoken in her eyes. It was a
lonely place for a woman, alone, without children, and he spoke about
children to Sandy, smiling. They should have children--a lot of them.
Sandy blushed, and Olaf let out a boom of laughter. But the woman's face
was unflushed and serious; only her eyes betrayed her, something
wistful and appealing in them as she looked at Sandy.

"We're building a new cabin," he said, "and there's two rooms in it
specially for kids."

There was pride in his voice as he made pretense to light a pipe that