Over the breasts of the tundra and the hollows between they went, still hand in hand, and found themselves talking of the colorings in the sky, and the birds, and flowers, and the twilight creeping in about them, while Alan scanned the shortening horizons for a sign of human life. One mile, and then another, and after that a third, and they were looking into gray gloom far ahead, where lay the kloof.
It was strange that he should think of the letter now—the letter he had written to Ellen McCormick—but think of it he did, and said what was in his mind to Mary Standish, who was also looking with him into the wall of gloom that lay between them and the distant cottonwoods.
“It seemed to me that I was not writing it to her, but to you” he said. “And I think that if you hadn’t come back to me I would have gone mad.”
“I have the letter. It is here”—and she placed a hand upon her breast. “Do you remember what you wrote, Alan?”
“That you meant more to me than life.”
“And that—particularly—you wanted Ellen McCormick to keep a tress of my hair for you if they found me.”
He nodded. “When I sat across the table from you aboard the Nome, I worshiped it and didn’t know it. And since then—since I’ve had you here—every time. I’ve looked at you—” He stopped, choking the words back in his throat.
“Say it, Alan.”
“I’ve wanted to see it down,” he finished desperately. “Silly notion, isn’t it?”
“Why is it?” she asked, her eyes widening a little. “If you love it, why is it a silly notion to want to see it down?”