c in me to be going with him, to shake this cruel
country and drift back to the home and the wife and the pies like mother
made.

I found him on the top deck with the Marceau girl, who was saying
good-by to him. There was a look about her I had never seen before, and
all at once the understanding and the bitter irony of it struck me. This
poor waif hadn't had enough to stand, so Love had come to her, just as
Kink had predicted--a hopeless love which she would have to fight the
way she fought the whole world. It made me bitter and cynical, but I
admired her nerve--she was dressed for the sacrifice, trim and
well-curried as a thousand-dollar pony. Back of her smile, though, I saw
the waiting tears, and my heart bled. Spring is a fierce time for
romance, anyhow.

There wasn't time to say much, so I squeezed Monty's hand like a
cider-press.

"God bless you, lad! You must come back to us," I said, but he shook his
head, and I heard the girl's breath catch. I continued, "Come on, Ollie;
I'll help you ashore."

We stood on the bank there together and watched the last of him, tall
and clear-cut against the white of the wheel-house, and it seemed to me
when he had gone that something bright and vital and young had passed
out of me, leaving in its stead discouragement and darkness and age.

"Would you mind walking with me up to my cabin?" Ollie asked.

"Of course not," I said, and we went down the long street, past the
theater, the trading-post, and the saloons, till we came to the hill
where her little nest was perched. Every one spoke and smiled to her and
she answered in the same way, though I knew she was on parade and
holding herself with firm hands. As we came near to the end and her pace
quickened, however, and I guessed the panic that was on her to be alone
where she could drop her mask and become a woman--a poor, weak,
grief-stricken woman. But when we were inside at last her manner
astounded me. She didn't throw herself on her couch nor go to pieces, as
I had dreaded, but turned on me with burning eyes and her hands tight
clenched, while her voice was throaty and hoarse. The words came
tumbling out in confusion.

"I've let him go," she said. "Yes, and you helped me. Only for you I'd
have broken down; but I want you to know I've done one good thing at
last in my miserable life. I've held in. He never knew--he never knew. O
God! what fools men are!"

"Yes," I said, "you did mighty well. He's a sensitive chap, an