Lucy had bent her face over the wet clothes.
“Ain’t it all right here?” she said in a scarcely audible voice.
“No,” said Moreau irritably; “I just told you there was danger of being snowed in after the first of November. You don’t want to be snowed in here with the baby, do you?”
“I don’t care,” said Lucy.
“If you don’t feel strong enough to do work like that,” he continued, “you can stay on in the hotel. I can make the dust for that easily. Then in the spring, when the streams are full, I’ll have enough to send you to Sacramento or San Francisco, and you can look about you and see how you’d like it there.”
“Why can’t I stay here?” she said suddenly, her voice quavering, but full of protest.
Its note thrilled Moreau.
“I’ve just told you why,” he said quietly.
“Well, I’m not afraid. I don’t mind snow. You can get things to eat from Hangtown. Oh, let me stay.”
She turned toward him, still kneeling on the stone. Her face was quivering with the most violent emotions he had ever seen on it. The dead apathy was gone forever, at least as far as he was concerned.