Harold's thought was curiously intertwined with the remembrance of the dark cavern he had entered yesterday, the gravel laden with gold. If indeed all things went as it seemed likely that they would go, Bill would never carry the word of his find down to the recorder's office. It was something to think of, something to dream about. Yellow gold,--and no further trouble in seeking it. Such a development would also save the labor of further planning. It was a friend of his, this wind at the window. "Won't this Chinook melt the snow crust?" Virginia asked him. He started. He hadn't realized that this newfound sweetheart of his knew the ways of Chinook winds and snow crusts. "Oh, no," he responded. "Why should it? Wind makes crusts, not softens them." Virginia was satisfied for the moment. Then her mind went back to certain things Bill had told her on one of their little expeditions. Strangely, she took Bill's word rather than Harold's. "But this is a warm wind, Harold," she objected. "If the crust is melted Bill can't possibly get through to his Twenty-three Mile cabin to-night. What will he do?" "He'll make it through. The crust won't melt that fast, if it melts at all. He may have a long, hard tramp, though. Don't worry, Virginia, he'll be coming in to-morrow night--with his back loaded with food." "I only wish I hadn't let him go." The girl's tone was heavy and dull. "But we have to have supplies----" "We could have gone out on that grizzly meat. It was so foolish to risk his life, and I had a presentiment too." He was glad that she had had a presentiment. It tended to verify his fondest dreams. But he laughed at her, and falling into one of his most brilliant moods, tried to entertain her. Her interest was hard to hold to-day. Her mind kept dwelling on Bill, mushing on through the softening snow, and her eyes kept seeking the window. She cooked lunch and burned every dish. Then, no longer able to deny her own fears, she ventured out in the snow to test its crust. She put on her snowshoes, starting a little way down Bill's trail. She was white-faced and sick of heart when she returned. "Harold, I'm worried," she cried. "I tried to walk in this snow--and you can talk about Bill making it through all you want, but I won't believe you. A hundred steps has tired me out." He was beginning to be a little angry with her fears. And he made the mistake of answering rather impatiently. "Well, what can you do about it? he's gone, hasn't he, and we can't call him back." "I suppose not. But if I--we--were out there in that soft snow, and he was here, he'd find something to do about it! He'd come racing out there to us--bringing food an blankets----" "Oh, he'd be a hero!" Harold scorned. "Listen, Virginia--there's nothing in the world to fear. The Chinook sprang up at nine----" "Oh, it was much later than that."