CHAPTER XIV.
Our vessel was a curious affair. The hull was a long, square-ended barge. In this was the engine which worked the huge wheel astern. On the deck a large cargo could be carried; over that were cabins, ranged along both sides, with the dining-room between. A railed passage—a balcony—surrounded the vessel on this deck outside the sleeping-rooms, and above all was the hurricane deck, where the passengers mostly passed their time.
The cabins were remarkably clean and comfortable: a Chinaman looked after them. Our food was excellent—considering.
The boat being "light," we were expected to make a record passage down—twelve days, the captain said; but it all depended on the state of the ice in the lower river.
There were only a dozen passengers besides ourselves—some of them were returning "sick," others because they were "sorry" they had come. Four or five were reputed to have made their piles. These were very silent men: they spent their time smoking, expectorating, and playing poker.
There was an American and his wife—Californians—who were very genial and superior: they were excellent company. There were also a young Englishman and an elderly Scotsman. The Americans were bound to San Francisco to buy goods: they had wintered in Dawson, and were returning later with their stock, and were going into storekeeping in Dawson in an extensive way. The Englishman and the Scot had done very well on Bonanza Creek: they owned they had made enough to live in Britain as they pleased.
We did not stop at Fort Reliance; it is all but abandoned, and has been so for years. That is where the first whites settled in that region, and it is from this point that most of the places have been named,—Forty, Sixty, Twelve Mile Posts were supposed to be these distances from Reliance. The Yukon is here five hundred yards in width; there are but few islands, and the current is regular.
At Forty Mile Post our boat was tied up for a few hours. This place is a small repetition of Dawson, although, I believe, a much older settlement: it is on the south side of Forty Mile river, which here joins the Yukon. It has several restaurants, billiard-halls, and bakeries, a blacksmith, and an opera-house!
On the north side of the river lies Cudahy, a smaller collection of stores and shanties. It has no opera-house, and would, in consequence, be unhappy but for Fort Constantine, which was established in 1895. It is a station of the mounted police, who have several fine log buildings, so well cared for that they lend an air of civilisation to the place.
From here to the boundary line between Canada and the United States—the 141st parallel of west longitude—there is nothing worth noticing. The Yukon there is about the same width as at Reliance, but soon after entering American territory—i.e., Alaska—it widens considerably. It continues thus for about one hundred miles, the banks on either hand being high and steep, with fine mountains inland. This portion is known as the Upper Ramparts.
Circle City we touched at. It had been a village of importance before Dawson existed. The Klondyke rush had taken away most of the inhabitants. We found it all but deserted. Here we took in wood for fuel, and heard with pleasure that the ice had left the river for a long distance down.
After this there are 150 miles of very much wider river, but it is a network of channels amongst small islands. Huge piles of ice were still to be seen on many shallows.
At Fort Yukon, which lies north of the Arctic Circle, we found hard winter reigned; but the river was free of ice. It is 380 miles below Dawson. The stream is said to be seven miles wide here. The navigation is most perplexing, as the channel shifts continually.
On the fifth day we came to floating ice, which extended from shore to shore. We moved slowly after it. It was drifting down at the rate of five miles an hour. During the short nights we tied up to the bank. At daylight, no ice being visible, we went on full speed until we overtook it. This continued till we were ten days out; then we came to a solid mass of ice, which was not moving.
Our captain, a bit of a philosopher, reckoned he had foreseen this delay and made light of it, but it was annoying to us.
There were no dwellings, no signs of human or any other life here, nothing but the dismal pine-clad river banks, where, being so far north, it was still deep winter.
We were stuck here four days. We were not a very lively party. Cards kept a few employed, and there were a few books on board. There were also a number of newspapers of the previous September. These were full of interest to some of us.
On the fourth day, suddenly, with an awful roar and turmoil, the ice broke up and started. We soon had clear water and went ahead again. No further stoppages occurred, we pushed on, and eighteen days from Dawson we reached the delta of the Yukon.
Here, the land being low and flat, and indeed then completely overflowed, we appeared to be on the open sea. We had to go eighty miles north through this to reach Fort St Michael, where our voyage in the stern-wheeler ended.
The few miserable settlements, trading-posts, and Indian rancheries which we had passed, or stopped at for firing, were all so perfectly uninteresting and monotonous that it is useless to even name them. The few inhabitants were generally busy in some way about the salmon. That fish was the all-absorbing topic here, as gold had been farther up.
We met but one vessel going in. She had been fast in the ice all winter, since the previous September! She was slowly pounding up against the strong current with so much of her cargo that was unconsumed during their long detention. What she had left was principally household furniture and whisky!—which would not feed the hungry.
Near St Michael's the mosquitoes discovered us, for it had now become intensely hot. Those pests stuck to us persistently until we were well out to sea.
May and I during this tedious time had become very friendly with our American fellow-passengers, Mr and Mrs Parker. May was so constantly with that lady that I had few opportunities of even a word with her, which made me quite unhappy. I fancied, foolishly, that May's past affectionately friendly way with me had ended, that she had changed, and that now that we were with others, and my help not so necessary, she was gradually forsaking me.
We were always in company, that is true, but she was never alone. It was rare now for her to call me Bertie, and I observed a look on her sweet face when I called her May which caused me to think she did not like it.
Yes, I was very miserable. I was jealous of her close association with Mrs Parker, I was jealous of the kindly way in which she spoke to that lady's husband. I was very absurd, I know. I was poor company then for myself, or for any one.
May had really changed very little in appearance, although she seemed to me to grow in beauty daily. With more civilised appliances, a few improvements in her dress, she became, in my eyes, the picture of all a girl should be. I longed to tell her this. I was annoyed, impatient, irritated at the obstacles which prevented me.
May always had a sad expression. Could one wonder at it? She was, I knew, still grieving over her lost father, and was anxious, filled with apprehension about her mother when she had heard the sad story she must tell her. I longed to help, to sympathise with her, indeed to be all in all to her, as I fancied I had been during that awful time up country.
It was very foolish, very preposterous of me, I am aware. I should have realised that such companionship could never be again, unless she became my wife. Really I knew it, and that is why I was so unhappy, and, as I see now, so stupid, for I then feared that she never could be that.
This state of matters continued until towards the end of this portion of our journey. It had grown so unbearable that I had become somewhat reckless. I really felt that I must put an end to it in some way. It actually came into my mind that I had better, on arriving at St Michael's, put her safely on board a ship bound for Victoria and return to Dawson and our claims up the Klondyke.
I said so to May one afternoon in the presence of Mr and Mrs Parker. I spoke as if I had all but determined to do so. She turned pale, then red. She did not speak, but she looked at me so eagerly, so imploringly, so frightened, that I was puzzled.
I was so abominably stupid that I attributed her expression of alarm to her fear of losing my help and guardianship. That she should be grieved at the mere prospect of parting with me, never entered my thick head that afternoon.
I said that I believed I should be better employed in looking after our interests up the Yukon than in going home in ease and luxury. "I'm sure you'll do very well and comfortably without me now, Miss Bell," I declared.
At this nasty speech the dear girl looked at me so surprised, so very sorrowfully, that I half regretted what I had said. She kept silence for a little. "Have you forgotten your promise to your friend Meade? and to my poor father?" she asked me.
I replied, with difficulty, I admit, I was so dreadfully down-hearted and distressed, "Oh! you will do all there is to be done for Meade, I'm sure, as well, nay, better than I can, and so that I know all will be carried out as he wished, that promise will be kept; and your father's desire will be carried out too if I see you off safely from this country—and that I will do, most certainly."
"Are you in earnest, Bertie?" She seemed to be amazed.
I assured her that was how I felt then,—that I thought it would be much better so.
May was silent again. Shortly she arose and walked slowly to her cabin. I fancied I observed a tear trickling down her cheek as she left us. "She is thinking about the past," I said to myself.
That same evening, later,—indeed it was getting towards midnight—the sun had long set, but its brilliance was still in the sky—it did not leave it the whole night through at that season,—I was on deck, as I supposed alone, the steamer was pressing onward to the ocean down the rapidly flowing river, here quite broad. The distant mountains in the west and north towered up, violet, from a bank of rose-tinted mist, soft as carded wool. Here and there ice-clad peaks were still gilded by the sun, which was far down behind them, whilst the moon was riding full behind me. I was in deep distress, broken-hearted, yet I have a clear remembrance of the scene on which I gazed that night.
As I leant upon the rail and pondered upon what I and May had said earlier in the day, what our adventures together had been in the past, and what I had been foolish enough, as I at that moment considered, to imagine might be possible in the future, I was down-hearted and exceeding sad. My heart went out to May, I dwelt long and fondly on thoughts of her, but I could see no ray of hope, and could think of no reason why she should ever regard me as more than a friend; whilst I was longing, yearning, beside myself with love of her. "Yes, oh! yes," I muttered to myself, "it is far better that I part with her,—far better, indeed, that I return to my work away back in the north."
There was much vibration in the vessel. These craft are at best very fragile, very shaky. The beating paddle-wheel astern made so much noise that perfect quiet could not be attained anywhere on board.
I was somewhere amidships, the stillest spot that I could find, yet I heard no footsteps, and had no idea that any one was near me. Lifting up my eyes to heaven, I ejaculated something—I don't know what—some exclamation of despondency at the prospect of the life that I was contemplating in the Upper Yukon; but I do remember that I ended with the words, "And no May there!"
As I uttered them a hand was laid softly on my arm. I turned round hastily, and there my darling stood, gazing at me steadily, with tear-filled eyes. "Bertie!" she exclaimed, "Bertie, what do you mean? What ails you? Are you unwell? Are you in some new grief? What do you mean by crying out 'and no May there'? Tell me, my friend, my very dear friend, what is amiss, what you mean?"
I was speechless for a little while. What could I say? I only stared at her distraught, I was overwhelmed with emotion, and I could not prevent my looks showing what I felt. "Oh! May, May!" I murmured at last, "do you not understand? Do you not comprehend the misery that I am suffering?"
She was silent. She leant on the rail beside me, fixing her gaze upon the crimson glow beyond the mountain range. She was perfectly still and speechless.
My agitation was very great—she and I were at last alone. I knew that the time had come when I must speak out. It was, I felt, now or never, yet my tongue refused to form a sentence; the thoughts that were whirling through my brain refused to be turned to words. For several minutes we two looked straight before us, seeing nothing, and were dumb.
But in course of time I was able to speak; it was slowly and in broken sentences. "May," I began, "my dear friend May—my dearest friend—you are going home—shortly we must part. I am broken-hearted about it. You were such sweet company to me up in that fearful north; we have been through such awful scenes together. To me, though, they were the happiest times that I have ever known, or ever expect to know. I would willingly go back there, and end my days there, if you could be with me; but that being impossible, I have really, and truly, and seriously thought of late that it would be better for me to go back there alone, for I believe I should be happier in the scenes where you and I have dwelt together, where the memory of your dear presence will for ever cling, than at home in England separated from you." Then I was silent again.
Shortly after this outburst May asked me why we must be separated; why, if her companionship was so necessary to my happiness, I could not have it easier and better in England than in Alaska?
What was I to reply to this? I muttered something, and she went on—"Have we not laid our plans and schemes for our future lives? Are we not going to carry them out? We are well off now as regards money. We believe we can do all we wish, thank God. What, then, is troubling you? Why this sadness, this unhappiness? Why do you speak of parting company and ending it all, and adding a greater—yes, I will admit it, a greater grief to me than any I have to bear, by talking thus of putting an end to the life together which we have contemplated with so much delight?"
"Why—why do I do this, May?" I cried excitedly. "Why? because I love you—love you. Do you understand why, now? Don't you know that you are all the world to me, and more? Don't you comprehend that the entire future is dark and dreadful to me, because I love you, yearn for you, and have no hope of winning your dear love in return? That is the reason, May. Now you know this secret of my heart."
Again my dearest was speechless for some time: I saw the tears dropping, dropping from her sweet eyes; fain would I have clasped her to my heart and dried them, but I dared not.
"Bertie," she said then, softly. "Yes; now I know your secret. But why? oh, why are you so sure that you cannot win my love?"
I glanced at her bewildered. She turned to me, and I saw in her dear eyes a look I cannot describe, but I understood it. I was overcome with the joy of it, enchanted at the knowledge that suddenly flashed through my intelligence. I did not, could not, stop to analyse, but I knew she loved me. I knew that all my fears were follies, and that all my greatest desires, my fondest hopes, were granted, and that May was mine!
What I said or did then I have no clear recollection; only this, that I seized my beloved's hands and drew her to me as she laid her head confidingly on my shoulder and whispered softly in my ear, "Dearest, don't you know I love you?"
We remained on deck together for a long while. For my part I was in the seventh heaven of delight and thankfulness. I could not find words to make my darling understand how great my joy was. I could but kiss her and draw her to my heart, whilst she murmured again and again to me the joyful words, "Bertie, my dearest, best of friends, I love you."
We parted only when the sun was about to rise above the north-eastern ranges. I went below, a gloriously happy man. I went to my berth rejoicing that never-to-be-forgotten morning on the Lower Yukon in Alaska.
To our fellow-passengers we believed that there could be no apparent change in us when we all met; but to me and to May how different all things seemed to be. When I glanced at her across the breakfast table, and saw the love-light in her eyes, I knew that she was, as I was, filled with gladness unspeakable.
We hardly had three words together that morning, she was with Mrs Parker all the time; the whole forenoon she kept away from me. I hung around, smoked my pipe persistently, hoping every moment that she would join me—my face, I'm sure, showing my discontent.
She came at last, saying, "Don't you understand, my love, that we cannot be exhibiting to all these people what we are to each other? We must not expose ourselves to their remarks. Be patient; my thoughts are always with you."
"But why need you be with Mrs Parker always?" I enquired. "Surely no one will be scandalised if you and I walk the deck together, or sit beside each other. We used to do so three days ago; why cannot we do so now?"
"True," answered my sweetheart with a loving smile; "but we were not so self-conscious then. We know now what we are to one another; let us be patient."
Of course I was so full of rapture, so intensely pleased, that every syllable my dear one said to me had my immediate acquiescence. "Oh, yes," said I, "I will be patient; but why should not people know? Why don't you tell Mrs Parker of our happiness? She is a good woman, I feel sure, and if she knew the state of matters she would advise and help us. Don't you wish that you could tell the Bains and Sandy, eh? How delighted they all would be."
May did not tell me then, but afterwards she did, that Mrs Bain—woman-like—had discovered my darling's secret and mine also, and had prophesied to her what would happen "some day."
Not long after this I perceived May and Mrs Parker side by side, talking together intently, with so absorbed an aspect that I guessed what was their subject easily.
After supper that evening Mrs Parker, catching me alone, congratulated me, declaring that she had made up her mind about us before the boat left Dawson; and felt honoured that May had, at last, confided in her. She assured me that in all her travels, and amongst all her acquaintances, she had never come across a sweeter girl than May Bell.
So, thereafter, May and I had many a sweet hour together, contrived by this kind Yankee friend, who, having plenty of wit and common-sense, arranged for us.
I fancy every person on board knew that we were lovers by the time we landed at St Michael's.
This place is an irregularly built village on an island of the same name. It consists of a few large warehouses—Russian buildings—a few log and frame houses and stores, and, when we were there, many shacks and temporary huts and camps.
It is perfectly treeless, but the grass-covered rolling downs were so like the prairies of Manitoba that May and I were impatient to go ashore and feel soft green sward beneath our feet again.
Several large sea-going ships and steamers were alongside the wharf or anchored in the roadstead, and there were numerous river-boats loading and preparing for their passage up to Dawson.
It was very evident, even before our boat touched land, that there was considerable excitement here. We were the first people down that season; this caused a crowd—all the inhabitants it seemed—to meet us, eager for our report. They swarmed on board before we were made fast, vehemently demanding information. "Was it true?" "Was gold being got as they had heard?" "Was there any left?" This was the burden of their interrogations.
There were wild-eyed fellows amongst them, who tackled every man of us almost savagely. There were women, too, just as anxious to hear what we could tell. Some of these latter got hold of May, and the captain was surrounded by a clamouring mob. They hardly gave him the chance to make his ship fast.
He referred them to the miners on board for information. He particularly indicated me—then I was attacked with a vengeance. Questions poured upon me.
The intelligence I gave sent most of the crowd half-cranky with delight. At once they were for dragging me ashore and treating me with all the grog and good things the place contained. They declared that nothing was too good for me, for what I had told them satisfied them that they were not too late, that all the gold was not yet extracted from the Klondyke!
As for May, I saw her being haled ashore by her female admirers, and she was looking quite alarmed. So soon as I could get my besiegers to listen I begged them to let me go to her. They did so, but they all accompanied me, and were then for both of us accepting unbounded hospitality.
It seemed that our captain had let out that we had a lot of gold on board. We could not, and did not, deny this, but when it came to questions about the amount we answered mysteriously. That was enough; they were certain that the captain had been right when he put our treasure down as worth several millions!
It was some time before we could break away from these enthusiasts. Go where we would they followed us, each wanting a private word or two. It was an exciting time truly.
There was one fine steamship leaving for Victoria that very evening. With difficulty I got on board, interviewed her commander, a first-rate English sailor, and secured our passages. The Parkers did the same.
This ship, a well-known Victoria trader, had brought up a full to overflowing complement of passengers. She was returning empty for another lot.
We heard that Victoria, Vancouver, and all the inland towns of Canada, all the American cities on Puget Sound, with San Francisco and all California, were half-mad about these wonderful finds reported on the Klondyke. The latest news from Eastern Canada and the States, from Britain, and indeed from all the world, was that vast crowds were coming.
We heard such stories, such wild, astounding stories about the doings up where we had come from. Such exorbitant fortunes that had been made, such heaps of gold-dust, such nuggets, buckets full of them! flour-barrels full! kegs heaped up with them! We were told that in some of the creeks the precious metal was so plentiful that men had picked up piles in a few hours—that there was plenty for every one who could but reach the Klondyke!
It was in vain that we assured them that we knew nothing of such occurrences,—that we were sure it was mostly gross exaggeration. No one would listen to this; they said we were trying to deceive them, to hide the truth from them, for that it was well known we ourselves had so much gold with us that we were multi-millionaires already, and were hoping and scheming to make ourselves richer still. It was no use our arguing, our disclaiming—they knew far better than we did.
We hardly heard a word about how the swarms, bound in, were to be fed. They knew that every ship had reached the port with heavy cargoes of food, they knew that the stores and warehouses here were full, but scarcely any one appeared to have an idea of getting it up to where the gold existed. They had very much to learn.
With some scheming we managed to get our gold transferred to this other ship; then we sailed at midnight.
This was a real steamship, flying the British ensign, manned and served in proper British style. We had excellent quarters, a capital table—my darling girl and I were in the lap of luxury.
I need not particularise much about this voyage. We had good weather, bright, clear, and not so cold, for our 750 miles passage across Behring Sea to Dutch Harbour on the island of Unalaska, the most important of the Aleutian chain. Its mountains were capped with eternal snow, but the greenness of the lower land was very charming. Many vessels were lying here, as it is a supply station for the sealing and whaling fleets.
Here we remained but a few hours. We then entered the Gulf of Alaska, where a strong gale and a heavy sea was our fortune, as we steered almost due east, for 2000 miles, to Victoria.
Arrived there, we found an excited crowd to meet us. Newspaper men interviewed us, and the accounts they printed of what we had said and done, and of the amount of bullion we had with us, astonished, thrilled the world—and us!
We only remained two days in Victoria, at my old quarters at Bella Rocca. During that time we had to give full particulars to the authorities about Meade's and Mr Bell's deaths. We delivered our gold to the Bank of British Columbia, feeling great relief when it was safe at last. We replenished our wardrobes, and became again decent-looking and civilised members of society.
May cabled to her mother from Victoria—she merely announced that she was safe and well and on her way home. She also wrote to a relative, begging her to break the awful news she had to tell to her mother, as we both thought this would be better than May arriving and suddenly telling her dreadful story.
During our voyage from St Michael's to Dutch Harbour, May and I had a quiet time, and we endeavoured to plan our future movements. My desire was that we should be married in Victoria. I believed it would save much trouble and misunderstanding. But she would not agree to this. She declared that only at her mother's home would she become my wife.
We went on board the Yosemite late one evening, and were in Vancouver early the following morning, and about noon the same day left by the C.P.R. for Montreal.
At Vancouver we parted with Mr and Mrs Parker, who were to take the boat bound south for San Francisco.
There were many tourists on our train, old-country folk and Americans. The conductors were genial and polite; the porters attentive and kindly; the meals were excellent in the dining-car; the beds were wonderfully comfortable. It was a truly enjoyable trip we had through the Selkirks and the Rockies. We gazed with sad interest at the scenery about Banff, then we bowled across the prairies past Broadview, where the train, stopping for an hour or so, gave us the opportunity of greeting a few old friends. After five days' travel we arrived at Montreal, stayed at St Lawrence Hall for two days, then went on board the Allan steamer Parmesian, and sailed for home.
It appeared that the good folk of Victoria must have told the people on the Yosemite about us, and they must have passed the story on to the officials of the C.P.R at Vancouver, for every one seemed to know where May and I had been, and what our experiences were, also the amount of gold we had brought out with us. Every one was attracted to us: we were famous, and had to answer no end of questions, and repeat again and again the story of our adventures.
We heard, and read subsequently, much about ourselves that was true enough, much that we certainly did not recognise.
There was the same experience on board the Parmesian, old and young seemed to be proud to hold a few minutes' conversation with either of us; but my dear girl was undoubtedly the heroine.
May had become splendidly well. She was very cheerful, too. I did my best to keep her from dwelling upon sorrowful memories.
When we reached England she was, as I was, thankful indeed; but now that she would be so quickly with her mother, she became very low-spirited and anxious. She dreaded, yet longed for, the sad meeting. She feared the effect upon her of what she had to say.
I accompanied her south as far as Maidstone, where a cousin met her, and she left me to hasten to her mother's arms.
*****
Since that day three months have elapsed. A week ago there was a wedding at Chart Sutton, where Mrs Bell has been residing since her husband and her daughter went to Canada.
On our wedding-day Mrs Bell had sufficiently recovered her health and peace of mind to be present at the ceremony. My two brothers were with me, and many of May's friends. Meade's mother and sister came, so did Fanny Hume.
We have bought a little place near the sea, at Bexhill, in Sussex; that is where our home is to be.
There is some talk of my going out to the Klondyke in 1898. I think it is my duty. My wife is dead against it. She has made me promise, at all events, to wait until reports can be received from Bain and Coney. They are due in June.
*****
At the end of June 1898 a letter came to hand from Bain. It was written in March, and was brought out by the "Yukon Kid," a famous half-breed, on his dog-train, over the White Pass to Skagway.
Bain reported that soon after we left they sold their claim at a good price; then they all moved up to Meade's Creek and built a comfortable cabin. Sandy Bain went down as far as St Michael's, bought a good outfit of stores, and was luckily able to get them up to Dawson by an early boat.
May's partners returned. They came in over the Chilkoot Pass, also bringing a good supply of food. They were grieved to hear of what Mr Bell and his daughter had suffered, and of the sad events that had ensued. They declared that they had made what they felt satisfied were reliable arrangements for their relief and rescue as they passed through Dawson the previous autumn. They approved of the way in which May had left the claim, and recognised Bain's and Coney's right to receive her share of the gold they obtained, which they promised to hand over at the proper time. The claim was looking still most prosperous.
Meade's Creek was staked out for miles above "discovery"—that is, our claim, Meade's and mine—and for some distance below. So was the creek upon which May's party's claim was situated. Trails had been cut, and on each creek a store or two had been started. A log church had been erected on Meade's Creek. Service was held by volunteers almost every Sabbath.
About the gold, Bain had very good news to tell. The dump which we had left had been washed. It was very rich. They had hired men to work for us, who had already got out another heap that looked to be as full of gold as ever. They had knocked away most of the hill in which we had our dug-out and our tunnel.
Bain's own claim looked well. They had already secured such an amount of gold, that he and his wife had serious thoughts of coming home the following autumn, leaving Frank and Sandy to go on mining, or to sell out when they got an offer good enough. He finished the business part of his letter by suggesting that I should await further reports before starting for the North-West again—that is, if I had any thought of coming. There was also some information about the route in by Skagway, on which he said great work was being done. A road for vehicles was completed, bad places had been bridged, &c. A railroad was commenced over the White Pass, and by the spring of 1899 it was confidently expected that it would be completed to Lake Bennet, the head of the navigation. Steamboats had been constructed to traverse the lakes and rivers. Stores, bunk-houses, and shelters had been erected along the trails. A tramway had been constructed round Miles Cañon and White Horse Rapids, and vast quantities of stores had fortunately been brought up from St Michael's, so that no great fear of starvation existed.
An aerial wire-way, which he thought little of, had been erected over the Chilkoot pass. It carried no passengers, only merchandise and stores.
Thus it appeared that as in this short time such immense improvements had been made in the way in to the Klondyke, we might expect in a year or two to be able to go in and out with speed and comfort in summer and autumn. But during the long and terrible winter there would be no easy way until a railroad was established.
There was an enclosure from Mrs Bain to May. She sent her loving messages, and hoped before her missive reached her she would be May Singleton. Which is exactly what she is.
Patch was flourishing—every one's favourite.
So I end our story. We are waiting for the latest news from Meade's Creek. But if no more gold is obtained from our claim on the Klondyke, we have reason to be well content, and to be thankful to the Giver of all good for His bounty to us.
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.