You are the beginning and end of everything with me. All my hopes, my ambitions, my life itself have come to centre in you. It was the thought that it was for you that kept me going when I have been so tired doing two men's work that I could scarcely drag one foot after the other. It made me take risks I might otherwise never have dared to take. It kept me plodding on when one failure after another smashed me in the face so fast that I could not see for the blackness. I never dreamed that love was like this--that it was such a spur--such an incentive--or that it could add so to the bitterness of failure. For I do love you, Helen; I see now that I have loved you from the time I saw you with Sprudell--further back than that, from the time I shook your picture out of that old envelope. I'm telling you this so you'll know why my tongue ran away with my judgment when I talked so much to you of my plans and expectations, hoping that in spite of the great disappointment my failure will be to you, it will make you a little more lenient. I have failed so completely that I don't even dare ask you if you care the least bit for me. It's presumptuous to suggest it-- it seems like presuming because you have been kind. But even if such a miracle could be, I have nothing to offer you. I don't mean to quit but it may be years before I get again the chance that I had down here. I love you, Helen, truly, completely: I am sure there will never be any one else for me. If only for this reason won't you write to me sometimes, for your letters will mean so much in the days that are ahead of me. When he had finished, Bruce gave Jim the letter and paid him off with the check that took the last of his balance in the bank. From the doorway of the shack he watched the Swede climb the hill, following him with his eyes until he had rounded the last point before the zig-zag trail disappeared into the timber on the ridge. A pall of awful loneliness seemed to settle over the canyon as the figure passed from sight and as Bruce turned inside he wondered which was going to be the worst--the days or nights. His footsteps sounded hollow when he walked across the still room. He stopped in the centre and looked at the ashes overflowing the hearth of the greasy range, at the unwashed frying-pan on the dirty floor, at the remains of Jim's lunch that littered the shabby oilcloth on the table. A black wave of despair swept over him. This was for him instead of cleanliness, comfort, brightness, friendly people--and Helen Dunbar. This squalor, this bare loneliness, was the harsh penalty of failure. He put his hand to his throat and rubbed it for it ached with the sudden contraction of the muscles, but he made no sound. * * * * *