“He’s got some claims,” Cheviot lowered his voice to say. “He doesn’t want anybody but you to know, for fear there’s nothing in them. But as soon as the frost is enough out of the ground to yield to pick and shovel, he means to rock out a few tons of gravel and see.”
“Do it himself!”—then, as Cheviot did not answer at once, “It’s simply dreadful! It’s—I can’t bear it.” She hid her face.
“Don’t, Hildegarde. I wish you wouldn’t cry.”
“Are you going back there?”
“No, oh, no; I’m not even going back to the Klondike.”
Mrs. Mar opened the door behind them. “It must be hours since you made that miserable meal in the train,” she said. “Come in here and have some supper.”
Cheviot would have declined but that he knew he must some time submit to a tête-à-tête. Best get it over.
After the dining-room door shut behind her mother and Cheviot, Hildegarde still sat there. The only movement about the white figure under the lamp was the salt water that welled up constantly and constantly overflowed the wide, sad eyes. The handle of the other door turned softly—a girl’s face looked in.
“Bella”—the motionless figure rose out of the chair and the one at the threshold came swiftly in. “Bella”—the voice was muffled—“my father—my father doesn’t mean ever to come home.”