no more than that to tell her how
Jim's idea of communicating with her corresponded with her own. That
night she would talk with him and she was thrilled through. The secrecy,
the peril, somehow lent this prospect a sweetness, a zest, a delicious
fear. Indeed, she was not only responding to love, but to daring, to
defiance, to a wilder nameless element born of her environment and the
needs of the hour.

Presently, Bate Wood called her in to supper. Pearce, Smith, and Cleve
were finding seats at the table, but Kells looked rather sick. Joan
observed him then more closely. His face was pale and damp, strangely
shaded as if there were something dark under the pale skin. Joan had
never seen him appear like this, and she shrank as from another and
forbidding side of the man. Pearce and Smith acted naturally, ate with
relish, and talked about the gold-diggings. Cleve, however, was not
as usual; and Joan could not quite make out what constituted the
dissimilarity. She hurried through her own supper and back to her room.

Already it was dark outside. Joan lay down to listen and wait. It seemed
long, but probably was not long before she heard the men go outside, and
the low thump of their footsteps as they went away. Then came the rattle
and bang of Bate Wood's attack on the pans and pots. Bate liked to cook,
but he hated to clean up afterward. By and by he settled down outside
for his evening smoke and there was absolute quiet. Then Joan rose to
stand at the window. She could see the dark mass of rock overhanging the
cabin, the bluff beyond, and the stars. For the rest all was gloom.

She did not have to wait long. A soft step, almost indistinguishable,
made her pulse beat quicker. She put her face out of the window, and on
the instant a dark form seemed to loom up to meet her out of the shadow.
She could not recognize that shape, yet she knew it belonged to Cleve.

"Joan," he whispered.

"Jim," she replied, just as low and gladly.

He moved closer, so that the hand she had gropingly put out touched him,
then seemed naturally to slip along his shoulder, round his neck. And
his face grew clearer in the shadow. His lips met hers, and Joan closed
her eyes to that kiss. What hope, what strength for him and for her now
in that meeting of lips!

"Oh, Jim! I'm so glad--to have you near--to touch you," she whispered.

"Do you love me still?" he whispered back, tensely.

"Still? More--more!"

"Say it, then."

"Jim, I love