"There's no bread like it in the Green River country," persisted Hetty. "They taught me to bake at the boarding-house. I made it."
Ingleby looked at her in astonishment. "Go on," he said. "I'll wait a little."
"Well," and though Hetty spoke quietly her voice was not quite her usual one, "what are you and Tom longing for just now more than anything?"
"The means to go on working on our claim."
"Then what would you say if I gave you them?"
Ingleby gasped. For days he had been haunted by the fear that their provisions would run out before they found the gold he believed in, for a little very simple figuring had shown that there was only a faint hope of their making more than the value of their day's labour once they relinquished the hitherto unprofitable claim. There was also, it was evident, no great probability that a mere wielder of pick and shovel would ever gain the regard of the Gold Commissioner's daughter, though Miss Coulthurst, whom he met occasionally, had of late been unusually gracious to him. He had, however, not the faintest notion of the fact that Hetty Leger read his thoughts.
"You see, it's quite simple," she said. "I made this bread, and there are men up the valley who are really finding gold. They don't want to waste a minute doing anything else, and it takes time to bake. You can't even make flapjacks in a moment. Now, if I had two or three sacks of flour I think I could get almost what I liked to ask for every loaf."
Leger looked up with a little expressive smile. "I believe she has found the way out of the difficulty."
It was, however, Ingleby at whom Hetty glanced, though it did not strike him then—as it did long afterwards—that she must have been quite aware what she was offering him.
"Well?" she said.