He puckered his lips and shook his head in perplexity. "How's a chap goin' to tell? It's a kind of disease that takes folks different ways. Can't rely on the symptoms. I once thought----" She sunk her head. "Don't talk of that--now. Here comes Devinne. Let us get the packs ready and go, while the day is yet young." Half an hour later they were ready for the thirty-mile journey to Dawson. They said good-bye to Devinne, and to Natalie, who appeared at the last moment, exhibiting a gayety which was obviously superficial. She kissed Angela, and clung for a moment to Jim's hand to whisper: "I vish you every happiness. _Bon voyage!_" They saw her waving her handkerchief as they entered the woods and headed for their destination. Traveling was pleasant enough, though the packs were heavy. Now that the following day would see them at Dawson, the question of the future loomed larger than ever. Broke, travel-stained, and tormented by the thought of parting, Jim could find little conversation, though Angela seemed cheerful enough. They came to the creek where Jim had rested but an hour or two before, and waded across it at the shallowest part. Traversing the opposite bank, Angela stopped and stared at the newly excavated hole. "Someone has been digging here!" she exclaimed. "Me," said Jim. "This morning." "To find what we always find--muck?" "I didn't wash it. Chips turned up and was in trouble----" She stared at him in amazement. "You dug all that and didn't wash it?" "What's the use? It didn't look good to me." She shrugged her shoulders and slipped her pack down. "What's wrong?" he queried. "Nothing. I'm going to wash it." "Better not waste time----" "Waste time! A few minutes won't make any difference, considering we've wasted a year already." He turned from her with a sigh. She called it wasted, but it hadn't been wasted to him. Now that the end of the journey was nigh, he found a strange joy in looking back over the past. Every little incident of their strange pilgrimage seemed to have garnered gold about it. Compared to the lonely, forbidding future, the past was like a paradise, to live for ever in his heart and mind. He had missed much, but he had gained something--passionate, all-consuming love for a woman. Though she gave little in return, it mattered not. The finest type of love does not make demands upon that which it worships. He could keep her still by the same means as he had retained her all along, but his mode of thought had changed somewhat. A deeper love had grown out of the old tempestuous, tyrannous thing. It were better to give than to receive. He watched her shaking the washing-pan in the water, her clear-cut face intent on the task at hand, and her hair glinting in the sunshine. She came splashing through the water with the pan in her hands. "Look--something glitters there!" He took it from her and gave one glance at the contents--a small heap of black and yellow. Then he laughed loudly.