"Don't chatter too long, gel. I won't be left with them people, d'ye hear? I may be wrong, but I think it won't take me time to be sick o' the pair of them. I may be wrong, huh, huh! Goodness! Look at the lid off the dustbin again. That woman don't do a thing she's told. Look at it! Some people breeds flies for a fancy. Hope ye have a good trip, Power. See you again in a week."
The hill begins at the very backdoor of the house, and lifts a wide breast of broken red rock into the cooler spaces. There are many seats about the top, and all breezes go that way. The poet, the refugee and the sighing swain thither may turn steps to find easement of their state. But few visit the hilltop, for the poet has no place on the books of the Surprise Mining Company, and the refugee need not take such a lengthy journey, while love ever keeps its hiding-places ready at hand.
The old man turned into the house, and Maud Neville put her hands on Power's shoulders. "A few minutes don't matter, Jim. This is our first time to-day. We'll go up the hill a moment."
They went up there, and sat down upon the warm, red rock. The camp was a few points of light in the dark; but many white stars filled the sky in old places—the Cross to the South, the Belt to the North, the Scorpion where you must crane the neck to find it. In such a dark lovers must sit closely if they would not be lost.
"Jim, to-day has been a failure, hasn't it?"
"I didn't mean it to be."
"You have had the blues all day, and those wretched people came before I could cure you."
"I shall be back in a week, Maud."
"I had worked father so hard, and all for nothing. I know it was not your fault. There wasn't one chance."