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“Why didn’t you go?” I asked, stupidly. “You love him, don’t you?”

“You know why I didn’t go,” she cried, fiercely. “I couldn’t. How could I go back and meet his mother? Some day she’d find me out and it would spoil his life. No, no! If only she hadn’t recovered–No, I don’t mean that, either. I’m not his kind, that’s all. Ah, God! I let him go–I let him go, and he never knew!”

She was writhing now on her bed in a perfect frenzy, calling to him brokenly, stretching out her arms while great, dry, coughing sobs wrenched her.

“Little one,” I said, unsteadily, and my throat ached so that I couldn’t trust myself, “you’re a brave–girl, and you’re his kind or anybody’s kind.”

With that the rain came, and so I left her alone with her comforting misery. When I told Kink he sputtered like a pinwheel, and every evening thereafter we two went up to her house and sat with her. We could do this because she’d quit the theater the day the boat took Prosser away, and she wouldn’t heed Eckert’s offers to go back.

“I’m through with it for good,” she told us, “though I don’t know what else I’m good for. You see, I don’t know anything useful, but I suppose I can learn.”

“Now, if I wasn’t married already–” I said.

“Humph!” snorted Kink. “I ain’t so young as neither one of my pardners, miss, but I’m possessed of rare intellectual treasures.”

She laughed at both of us.

When a week had passed after the first boat went down with Prosser, we began to look daily for the first up-river steamer, bringing word direct from the outside world. It came one midnight, and as we were getting dressed to go to the landing our tent was torn open and Montague tumbled in upon us.

“What brought you back?” we questioned when we’d finished mauling him.

It was June, and the nights were as light as day in this latitude, so we could see his face plainly.

“Why–er–” He hesitated for an instant, then threw back his head, squared his great young shoulders, and looked us in the eyes, while all his embarrassment fled. “I came back to marry Olive Marceau,” said he. “I came to take her back home to the little mother.”

He stared out wistfully at the distant southern mountains, effulgent and glorified by the midnight sun which lay so close behind their crests, and I winked at Martin.

“She’s left–“

“What!” He whirled quickly.

“–the theater, and I don’t suppose you can see her until to-morrow.”

Disappointment darkened his face.

“Besides,” Kink added, gloomily, “when you quit her like a dog I slicked myself up some, and I ain’t anyways sure she’ll care to see you now–only jest as a friend of mine. Notice I’ve cut my whiskers, don’t you?”

We made Monty pay for that instant’s hesitation, the last he ever had, and then I said:

“You walk up the river trail for a quarter of a mile and wait. If I can persuade her to come out at this hour I’ll send her to you. No, you couldn’t find her. She’s moved since you left.”

“I wouldn’t gamble none on her meetin’ you,” Martin said, discouragingly, and combed out his new-mown beard with ostentation.

She was up the moment I knocked, and when I said that a man needed help I heard her murmur sympathetically as she dressed. When we came to our tent I stopped her.

“He’s up yonder a piece,” said I. “You run along while I fetch Kink and the medicine-kit. We’ll overtake you.”

“Is it anything serious?”

“Yes, it’s apt to be unless you hurry. He seems to think he needs you pretty badly.”

And so she went up the river trail to where he was waiting, her way golden with the beams of the sun whose rim peeped at her over the far-off hills. And there, in the free, still air, among the virgin spruce, with the clean, sweet moss beneath their feet, they met. The good sun smiled broadly at them now, and the grim Yukon hurried past, chuckling under its banks and swiggering among the roots, while the song it sang was of spring and of long, bright days that had no night.