This made her very happy, though she
would not listen, and made him promise to not say such things
again. Her hour had not come.
But the sun swept back on its northern journey, the black of
midnight changed to the steely color of dawn, the snow slipped
away, the water dashed again over the glacial drift, and the
wash-up began. Day and night the yellow clay and scraped bedrock
hurried through the swift sluices, yielding up its ransom to the
strong men from the Southland.
And in that time of tumult came Grace Bentham's hour.
To all of us such hours at some time come,--that is, to us who
are not too phlegmatic.
Some people are good, not from inherent love of virtue, but from
sheer laziness. But those of us who know weak moments may
understand.
Edwin Bentham was weighing dust over the bar of the saloon at the
Forks--altogether too much of his dust went over that pine
board--when his wife came down the hill and slipped into Clyde
Wharton's cabin. Wharton was not expecting her, but that did not
alter the case. And much subsequent misery and idle waiting might
have been avoided, had not Father Roubeau seen this and turned
aside from the main creek trail.
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