Nearly a month had passed since Fletcher’s departure when one day, walking down the stream with an idea of trying diggings farther down, he came upon Lucy washing in a pool of water enlarged by a rough dam she herself had constructed. She was kneeling on a flat stone on the bank, her sunbonnet off, her sleeves rolled up, laving in the water the few articles of dress that made up the baby’s wardrobe. Her arms above the sunburned wrists shone snow-white, her roughened hair lay low on her forehead in damp, curly strands. The sight of her engaged in this menial toil irritated Moreau and he called: “What are you doing there, Lucy? Get up.” She started with one of her old nervous movements and sat back on the stone. Then, seeing who it was, smiled confidently, and brushed the hair back from her forehead with one wet hand. “I was washing the baby’s things. That’s the dam I made.” Moreau stood looking, not at the dam, but at the woman, flushed, breathless and smiling, a blooming girl. “No one would ever think you were the same woman who came here two months ago,” he said, more to himself than to her. “I don’t feel like the same,” she answered, beginning to wring her clothes. “I don’t feel now as if that was me.” “I thought you were quite an old woman then. Do you know that? I’d no idea you were young.” “I felt old. Oh, God--!” she said, suddenly dropping her hands and looking across the pool with darkly reminiscent eyes--“how awful I felt!” “But you’re quite well now? You’re really well, aren’t you?” he asked. “Oh, I’m all right,” she said, returning to her tone of gaiety. “I ain’t never been like this before. Not sence I was married, anyway.” The allusion to her marriage made Moreau wince. Of late the subject had become hateful to him. Standing, leaning on his shovel, he said: “You know it’ll be winter here soon, so it’s a good thing we’ve got you well and nicely rested up.” “Yes, I guess ’twill be winter soon,” she said, looking vaguely round; “does it snow?” “Sometimes tons of it, if it’s a hard winter. But we’ve got to get out before that. Or you have, anyhow. Can’t run any risks with the baby. Got to get her out and into some decent shelter before the snow falls.” For a moment Lucy made no answer. She had stopped wringing the clothes and was kneeling on the stone, her eyes on the water, a faint line drawn between her brows. “Where to--? What sort o’ place?” she said slowly. Moreau shifted his eyes from her face to the earth in which the point of his shovel had imbedded itself. “I told you as soon as you got well I’d take you to Hangtown or Sacramento, or even ’Frisco if they didn’t suit. Now I haven’t got dust enough to do that. Fletcher put that spoke in my wheel. But I’ll take you and the baby into Hangtown.” “Hangtown?” she repeated faintly.