than one to get there," he said. "So long."
Tug laughed without any enjoyment.
"I'd say this country's a hell of a piece—from anywhere," he retorted.
He turned at once and shouted at his dogs.
"Ho, you, Husky! Demon! You, too, Pinto! Mush, you devils! Mush on!"
The dogs responded on the instant. They strained at their harness, and promptly leaped into a swift run, bearing the laden sled away in a dense flurry of soft snow.
Leo and Audie looked after the departing outfit, until the speeding sled reached the foot of the long slope and disappeared behind a snow-laden scrub of undergrowth. Then the man stirred.
"It's getting near food," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
But Audie gave no sign of hearing him. Her face was turned away. She was still turned in the direction of the vanished sled. Her eyes were crowded with tears, and all the old longing and terror were upon her again.
"Audie!"
The summons came without any softening. The man's only answer was a deep, choking sob. Leo turned at once; neither was there any sign of impatience in his voice as he questioned her.
"What are you crying for?"
The sound of his question broke the spell of the woman's overwrought feelings. She choked down her sobs and her tearful eyes smiled round upon him, although her cheeks were still wet.
"Because I'm a fool. Because I've always been a fool, and—always shall be."
Leo half smiled and shook his head.
"We're never fools when we think we are," he said calmly. "The truth lies in the reverse."
Audie sighed. Again the corners of her pretty mouth drooped, and her brows drew ominously together.
"I—I was thinking of—of the places where he's going to. I was thinking of the—the good time he'll have. I was—oh, I was thinking of the winter that's coming to us here and—and of what I've got to——"
The man drew a deep breath, and something like a shadow crossed his strong features. His gaze wandered away towards the creek, where for so long he had been laboring to lay the foundations of that wonderful structure of success he purposed to achieve.
"You're scared," he said deliberately, at last. "You're scared to have your baby up here—alone." Then his eyes came back to her. "Guess I can't blame you—no one could. We—didn't reckon on this." He waited for a moment. "What do you want me to do?" he asked at last.
For a brief moment the girl's big eyes brightened with hope. But the moment passed, and tears again fell upon her soft, round cheeks.
"Do? Oh, Leo, I—I want to go where there's light, and—and hope. I—I want to go where there's help for me." She shuddered. "Yes, I'm scared. I'm terrified. But it—it isn't only that. It's—oh, I don't want our baby to be born in this awful country. Think—think of its little eyes opening on—on this wilderness. Besides——"
She broke off, her tearful eyes filled with doubt.
"Besides—what?"
There was no denying the directness of this man's mind.
"It—it doesn't matter. I——"
"But it does."
Audie had stopped to pick up the fish; but she left it where it was. She understood the uselessness of further denial. She had long ago learned her lesson. This man, young as he was, was utterly different to all the men she had ever met. Sometimes she was afraid of him; sometimes she would have given worlds never to have set eyes on him. But always she knew that somehow her fate was linked with his; and above all she knew that she loved him, and under no circumstances would she have had it otherwise.
His love for her she never considered—she dared not consider it. In the remote recesses of her woman's soul, recesses hidden so well that even she, herself, rarely visited them, recesses the contemplation of which filled her with dread and trepidation, she held the hideous truth that his regard for her was incomparable with the devotion she yielded to him. But even with this subtle conviction, with this painful truth ever vibrant in her happiest moments, she was woman enough to be able to thank her God that she was permitted to live on the fringe of his life, his only companion in the rough hut which was their home. She would have him just as he was—yes, a thousand times sooner than yield up the love she bore him.
She knew now that a crisis in their lives had arrived. She knew that she had gone too far to retreat. Therefore she took her courage in both her hands.
"It's—it's the baby," she cried haltingly. "He—oh, yes, he, I am sure it will be a boy—will—will have no father, if—if he is born up here."
It was out. She could get no further; and she stood clasping her hands to steady the trembling she had no power to check.
The verdict of this man, whom she looked to as the arbiter of her fate, was slow in coming. With each passing moment her apprehension grew till she longed to cry out at the torture of the suspense. He was thinking earnestly, swiftly. He knew that she had confronted him with a problem that might well change his whole future. Therefore he considered without haste, without the least emotion.
At last his keen eyes turned upon her up-turned face, and what she beheld there warned her of the calm judgment he had brought to bear.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "And," he went on, after a moment, "maybe he'd have no mother either."
For a moment puzzlement was added to the woman's trouble.
"You mean——?"
Again Audie broke off. A sudden understanding had come. His point of view was wholly in another direction from hers. He was not thinking of their moral obligations towards the little, unborn life. He was thinking of her; of what the unassisted birth in these outlands might mean for her.
She was startled. Then a rush of feeling swept over her that would not be denied.
"I—I wasn't thinking so much of—of myself," she cried eagerly. "I meant——"
"I know," he interrupted her. "You meant we are not married."
"Yes, yes. That's it." She came to him and seized one of his strong hands in both of hers, and her eyes were pleading up into his. "Oh, Leo, don't you understand what it means to him? Won't you? I never thought of it before. How should I? All I wanted in the world was to be with you. All I wanted was to be your devoted companion. That's why I—I made you bring me up here. Yes. I know. I made you bring me. You didn't want to. I knew then, as I have always known, as I know now, that—that I was merely a passing fancy to you. But I did not care. I believed I could make you love me. I blinded myself utterly, purposely, because I loved you. But now I realize something else. I realize there is another life to be considered. A life that is part of us. It is that which appalls me. Now I see the terrible consequences of my folly, to remedy which I must add to your burden, or give up forever all the happiness that has been mine since I knew you. Oh, Leo, I cannot bring a bastard into the world. Think of it. The terrible shame for the boy—for his mother.
