speakable habitues. I wondered how I had ever deceived myself
into thinking it was all right. I began to worry, so that I knew only a
trip into Dawson would satisfy me. Accordingly, I hired a big Swede to
take my place at the shovel, and set out once more on the hillside trail
for town.

CHAPTER XX

I found the town more animated than ever, the streets more populous, the
gaiety more unrestrained. Everywhere were flaunting signs of a plethoric
wealth. The anxious Cheechako had vanished from the scene, and the
victorious miner masqueraded in his place. He swaggered along in the
glow of the Spring sunshine, a picture of perfect manhood, bronzed and
lean and muscular. He was brimming over with the exuberance of health.
He had come into town to "live" things, to transmute this yellow dust
into happiness, to taste the wine of life, to know the lips of flame.

It was the day of the Man with the Poke. He was King. The sheer
animalism of him overflowed in midnight roysterings, in bacchanalian
revels, in debauches among the human debris of the tenderloin.

Every one was waiting for him, to fleece him, rob him, strip him. It was
also the day of the man behind the bar, of the gambler, of the harpy.

My strange, formless fears for Berna were soon set at rest. She was
awaiting me. She looked better than I had ever seen her, and she
welcomed me with an eager delight that kindled me to rapture.

"Just think of it," she said, "only two weeks, and we'll be together for
always. It seems too good to be true. Oh, my dear, how can I ever love
you enough? How happy we are going to be, aren't we?"

"We're going to be happier than any two people ever were before," I
assured her.

We crossed the Yukon to the green glades of North Dawson, and there, on
a little rise, we sat down, side by side. How I wish I could put into
words the joy that filled my heart! Never was lad so happy as I. I spoke
but little, for love's silences are sweeter than all words. Well, well I
mind me how she looked: just like a picture, her hands clasped on her
lap, her eyes star-bright, angel-sweet, mother-tender. From time to time
she would give me a glance so full of trust and love that my heart would
leap to her, and wave on wave of passionate tenderness come sweeping
over me.

It may be there was something humble in my stintless adoration; it may
be I was like a child for the pleasure of her nearness; it may be my
eyes told all too well of the fire tha