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That evening she met McGill with a smile, the first she had worn for some time, and she was particularly affectionate.

Instead of returning down-river, Barclay found lodgings and remained in Ophir. He was not the most industrious of men, and before long became a familiar figure around the few public places. McGill met him frequently, seeing which Barclay’s fellow-passengers from below raised their eyebrows and muttered meaningless commonplaces; then, when the younger man took to spending more and more of his time at the miner’s cabin, they ceased making any comment whatever. These are things that wise men avoid, and a loose tongue often leads to an early grave when fellows like McGill are about. Some of the old-timers who had wintered with the miner in the “upper country” shook their heads and acknowledged that young Barclay was a braver man than they gave him credit for being.

Of course McGill was the last to hear of it, for he was of the simple sort who have faith in God and women and such things, and he might have gone on indefinitely in ignorance but for Hopper, who did not care much for the Barclay person. The saloon-man, being himself uneducated and rough, like McGill, cherished certain illusions regarding virtue, and let drop a hint his friend could not help but heed. The husband paid for his drink, then went back to the rear of the room, where he sat for an hour or more. When he went home he was more gentle to his wife than ever. He brooded for a number of days, trying to down his suspicion, but the poison was sown, and he finally spoke to her.

“Barclay was here again this afternoon, wasn’t he?”

She turned her face away to hide its pallor. “Yes. He dropped in.”

“He was here yesterday, and the day before, too, wasn’t he?”

“Well?”

“He’d ought to stay away; people are talking.”

She turned on him defiantly. “What of it? What do I care? I’m lonesome. I want company. Mr. Barclay and I were good friends.”

“You’re my wife now.”

“Your wife? Ha! ha! Your wife!” She laughed hysterically.

“Yes. Don’t you love me any more, Alice?”

She said nothing.

“I’ve noticed a change, lately, and–I can’t blame you none, but if you loved me just a little, if I had even that much to start on, I wouldn’t mind. I’d take you away somewhere and try to make you love me more.”

“You’d take me away, would you?” the woman cried, gaining confidence from his lack of heat. “Away, where I’d be all alone with you? Don’t you see I’m dying of lonesomeness now? That’s what’s the matter. I’m half mad with the monotony. I want to see people, and live, and be amused. I’m young, and pretty, and men like me. You’re old, McGill. You’re old, and I’m young.”

Her husband withered beneath her words; his whole big frame sagged together as if the life had ebbed out of it; he felt weary and sick and burned out. His brain held but one thought–Alice did not love him, because he was old.

“Don’t go on this way,” he said, finally, to check her. “I suppose it’s true, but I’ve felt like a daddy and a mother to you, along with the other feeling, and I hoped you wouldn’t notice it. I don’t reckon any young man could care for you like that. You see, it’s all the loves of my whole life wrapped up together, and I don’t see, I don’t see what we can do about it. We’re married!” It was characteristic of him that he could devise no way out of the difficulty. A calamity had befallen them, and they must adjust themselves to it as best they could. In his eyes marriage was a holy thing, an institution of God, with which no human hands might trifle.

“No,” he continued, “you’re my wife, and so we’ve got to get along the best way we can. I know you couldn’t do anything wrong–you ain’t that kind.” His eyes roved over the homely little nest and the evidences of their married intimacy. “No, you couldn’t do that.”