in the tattered duck troubled them. It
was a minute or two before either of them spoke.

"Heart trouble of some kind," said the surveyor. "If not, it isn't
going to matter."

He looked around at his companion with a little wave of his hand which
seemed to deprecate the mention of the subject.

"He can't tell us now where that lode is."

Weston said nothing for a minute. After all, there was so little that
could be said. Then he stretched himself wearily.

"There is something to be done, but I don't feel quite equal to it
yet, and I'm parched with thirst. Willows grow only where there's
water."

"These," said Devine, "look kind of sickly. You can see quite a few of
them have dried up; but it's a sure thing they had water to start
them. Wish I knew how to strike it. It's most three days since I had
what one could call a drink."

"Did you ever hear of water-finding?"

"Yes," answered Devine. "I've read a little about the old country.
Kind of old English charlatanry, isn't it?"

"Well," said Weston, simply, "I could find water once upon a time. I
know that, because I've done it."

"Don't you need a hazel fork? You can't get one here."

"I don't think the hazel matters. The power is in the man. I can cut a
fork out of something."

Devine made a little gesture which seemed expressive of resignation.

"Well," he said, "whether we go on or go back we have to have a drink.
That's a sure thing; and I feel, like you, that I want it before we
set about the work that's awaiting us."

After that they both sat still again. They had to decide whether they
would go back or go on, and both of them realized what the decision
would be. Their guide had left them, and the last expectation of
finding the lead had melted away. At first the sight of his dead
comrade had driven all other thoughts from Weston's mind, but now he
was compelled to admit that he had wasted time and money on a
delusion. That perhaps was no great matter in itself, but it made it
clear that all he could look for was to earn food and shelter as a
packer, logging-hand, or wandering laborer. Impassable barriers
divided Ida Stirling from a man of that kind, and he dare no longer
dream of the possibility of tearing them down. At last, and the
knowledge was very bitter, he was face to face with defeat. He forgot
for the moment that Grenfell lay just beyond the tangled undergrowth.
He gazed straight in front of him, with a hard hand clenched and a
look in hi