a cry of astonishment.

"D'Arcy!"

The white man ceased paddling and looked up sharply. He turned to the
Indians and rapped out an order. The canoe drifted in towards Angela's
craft and D'Arcy held out his hand, with absolute wonder written in his
eyes.

"Angela Featherstone, by all that's holy! What are you doing here?"

"I'm with my husband," she replied bitterly.

"But I thought--I read that you were giving house parties, attending
race-meetings, and all that sort of thing. I came to Canada the week
before you were married. I read about it and wondered who the happy man
was."

Angela's hand played with the running water. D'Arcy was scarcely more
than an acquaintance, but at least he was one of her own set. Like a lot
of other men, D'Arcy had made love to her and been repulsed.

"Look here, I don't understand this," rejoined D'Arcy. "You--you aren't
prospecting?"

She nodded.

"Great Scott! It's bad enough for men, but for a woman----!" He looked
round. "Is your husband about?"

"He's up the bank cutting a new pole."

"I see."

He gave her another searching look, the meaning of which was clear to her.
In the same mute but eloquent language she gave him to understand the
chief fact--she was unhappy.

"To bring you here--to bring a cultured woman into a country like
this----!"

Words failed him. He touched her hand softly.

"Where are you making for?"

"A creek down the river called 'Red Ruin.' He has staked two claims
there."

He nodded reflectively.

"I'm making for Dawson for some gear. I'll drop in and see you some day if
I may?"

"Do. I should enjoy a talk with you."

"Your--your husband won't object?"

"Does it matter?"

He laughed and, shaking her hand, paddled his frail craft out into the
stream. Looking up, she saw Jim coming down the bank, with the ax swinging
in one hand and a new pole over his shoulder. He unfastened the rope and
entered the boat.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"An old friend," she replied coldly.

She saw his eyes flash as he threw his weight on the pole and sent the
boat hurtling down the river. But for the bitterness rankling within her,
she might have found time to admire her pilot. Big as he was, there was
nothing ungainly about him. Every movement was beautiful in its perfect
exhibition of muscular energy. The hard knotted muscles in his bare arms
swelled and relaxed as they performed the work allotted them. Little beads
of perspiration sparkled on the