"At the missionary's house at Hay River we were married, and the wife of the missionary gave me her clothes until mine dried. We stayed there three days and then we went on. Jim had a cabin in a wonderful hot springs valley, and it was there we were going. It would take us a month, but the weather was at its best, hazy blue days, continuous daylight, only a little dimming of the sun's light when it disappeared behind the mountains. We had pack-dogs from the post—Jim had left them there—and lots of provisions. I dream of those campfires and the frying bacon, and the blue smoke lifting itself up to the tree-tops."
She sat a long time silent, in a happy maze of memory.
"I had as much happiness as most women, but mine came all at once—and left me all at once. We reached the valley in September. I was wild with the beauty of it! Set in the mountains, which arched around it, was this wonderful square of fertile land, about six miles one way and seven the other. The foliage is like the tropics, for the hot springs keep off frost. The creeks which run through it come out of the rocks boiling hot—but cool enough to bathe in as they run on through the meadows. Their waters have a peculiar purplish tinge, which passes away after it stands a while, and a delicate aroma like a fragrant toilet water. I called it the Valley of purple springs'."
"Our house was of logs, and built on a rock floor, which was always warm. There were skins on the floor worth fortunes, for the animals came to the valley in winter by the hundreds, black foxes and silver, martins and bear. They came in, stayed a few days and passed out again. The ferns in the valley stood seven feet high, and the stalks were delicious when boiled and salted.
"Jim had planted a garden before he left, and we had everything, cabbages, cauliflower, beets, mushrooms. Jim got the skins he wanted—he didn't kill many—and we tanned them in the Indian way.
"At first the Indians had been afraid to come. They called it 'The
Devil's Valley,' and though the young bucks might come in and spend a
night, just as a bit of bravado, they were frightened of it; but after
I came they took courage and came in.
"We found out that the water in the streams had healing power, and made one's skin feel soft as velvet, especially one stream which had the deepest color. One old squaw, whose eyes had been sore for years, was healed in three weeks and went back to her people with her wonderful tales of the valley. After that we had Indians with us all the time. They brought their sick children and their old people, and the results were marvelous. I never knew the stream to fail. Even the tubercular people soon began to grow rosy and well. The food seemed to have healing power, too, and some who came hollow-cheeked, feverish, choking with their cruel paroxysms of coughing, soon began to grow fat and healthy. At first the sick people just slept and slept on the warm rocks, and then came the desire to bathe in the stream, and after that they went searching for the herbs they needed.
"We lived there three years. At the end of the first year little Jim was born—my precious Jim, with his wonderful eyes, reflecting the beauty of the valley. The Indian women tanned the softest buckskin for his little things, and he had the most elaborately beaded garments. No little prince was ever more richly dressed. He grew lovlier every day."
Pearl could refrain no longer: "Why did you ever leave?" she asked breathlessly.
"Conscience," said Annie Gray, after a pause. "We couldn't keep it all to ourselves and be happy over it. We couldn't forget all the sick people to whom our purple springs would bring healing. Mind you, we tried to deaden our consciences; tried to make ourselves believe it was not our duty to give it to the world. We fought off these spells of conscience—we tried to forget that there was a world outside. But we couldn't—we owed a duty, which we had to pay.