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.
“Yes; it’s quite a ways off. I’ll have to go in myself and get a horse first, and then I’ll take you both in on that. I thought I’d go to Mrs. Wingate. Her husband runs the Eldorado Hotel, and she isn’t strong, and told me last time I was there she’d give a fancy salary if she could get a housekeeper. How’d you like to try that? It would be a first-class home for you and the baby.”