picture of what that gold would
buy them in kindlier lands. And some never found any, never won the
stake that would justify the gamble. It was a gamble, in a sense--a
pure game of chance; but a game that took strength, and nerve, a sturdy
soul, to play.

Still, the gold was there, locked up in divers storing places in the
lap of the earth, awaiting those virile enough to find and take. And
out beyond, in the crowded places of the earth, were innumerable
gateways to comfort and pleasure which could be opened with gold. It
remained only to balance the one against the other. Just as she had
often planned according to her opportunities when she was a wage slave
in the office of Bush and Company, so now did she plan for the future
on a broader scale, now that the North promised to open its treasure
vault to them--an attitude which Bill Wagstaff encouraged and abetted
in his own whimsical fashion. There was nothing too good for them, he
sometimes observed, provided it could be got. But there was one
profound difference in their respective temperaments, Hazel sometimes
reflected. Bill would shrug his wide shoulders, and forget or forego
the unattainable, where she would chafe and fume. She was quite
positive of this.

But as the days passed there seemed no question of their complete
success. Bill fabricated his rocker, a primitive, boxlike device with
a blanket screen and transverse slats below. It was faster than the
pan, even rude as it was, and it caught all but the finer particles of
gold. Hazel helped operate the rocker, and took her turn at shoveling
or filling the box with water while Bill rocked. Each day's end sent
her to her bed healthily tired, but happily conscious that she had
helped to accomplish something.

A queer twist of luck put the cap-sheaf on their undertaking. Hazel
ran a splinter of wood into her hand, thus putting a stop to her
activities with shovel and pail. Until the wound lost its soreness she
was forced to sit idle. She could watch Bill ply his rocker while she
fought flies on the bank. This grew tiresome, particularly since she
had the sense to realize that a man who works with sweat streaming down
his face and a mind wholly absorbed in the immediate task has no desire
to be bothered with inconsequential chatter. So she rambled along the
creek one afternoon, armed with hook and line on a pliant willow in
search of sport.

The trout were hungry, and struck fiercely at the