The sick man was obviously ill-pleased and not a little scornful. “You will understand why I don’t want to be overheard when I tell you—” Again he sent the searching glance into that square of the world the driftwood lintel framed, and his voice was half a whisper. “You’ll understand when I tell you I have a legacy to leave.” He waited. “Yes,” said Hildegarde. “How did you know!” he demanded, and the eyes were less friendly. “Oh, I didn’t _know_.” “You suspected—” “Well, most people, however poor, have something to leave, however little.” He lifted his hand to silence the platitude, and his whisper reached her clear and sharp: “I am leaving more than ever a man left before.” It was true then about the Mother Lode. She waited, hardly breathing. He had said she could help him. He wanted a letter written or witness to a will, but he had fallen back upon that strained listening. “You have children?” Hildegarde asked. He made a barely perceptible motion, no. “Brothers and sisters?” She tried to help his memory. “No.” “Who, then?” “My legacy’s too great to leave to any individual.” Hildegarde’s eyes kindled with excitement. All the talk about Nome had given her a sense of living in an atmosphere of mighty enterprise, of giant losses, and of fabulous gain. She was primed to hear of lucky millions stumbled on by chance. “You want to make a bequest to the nation?” Why was he hesitating, she wondered impatiently, as he flung again that same intent look out of doors? She knew he could see nothing but the wild, white horses climbing the rocky shore to look across the tundra. She knew he could hear nothing but the thunder of their hoof-beats on the beach. At last he spoke. “They said my trouble was ambition.” And still his ears waited for some sound beyond Hildegarde’s hearing, and still his eyes saw more than hers. He was silent so long she adventured in the dark, “Did you leave ambition ‘up yonder,’ too?” “Yes, up yonder!” But he brought out the words triumphantly, and he paused upon a broken breath still listening. “Ky,” he whispered, “the lady likes exploring, but she’s afraid to shut the door. Go out, Ky, and see if that old villain’s hanging about. _Ky!_” The beast took her nose out of the blanket, and seemed to implore him to reconsider his command. “Go out and explore! Go—_once more_!” There was a curious gentle note in the weak voice. “Don’t send her out,” Hildegarde pleaded. “My dog’s out there now. Poor Ky.” She was conscious that her kindness for the maimed beast pleased the owner. “Have you ever cared about a dog?” he said. “Well, if I haven’t, I know some one who has, and that’s Red’s master. Why do you ask me?” “Because I find myself with all my wealth wanting two things at the last.” “What things?” “A little fire that I haven’t strength to make, and a friend for Ky.” “I’ll help you about the fire.” She reached out and picked up the fallen pieces of wood.