ce, and either vanish for a week or, coming home
every night from Klondyke, reduce her to a state of inarticulate
wretchedness. She was on the point of losing hope entirely. Sometimes it
seemed to her that he drank deliberately now that the first flush of
gratitude and love for her, the first zest of having a son, had worn
off. He lied until she was sickened of the sound of his stammering
voice--for never once did he lie without stammering. If he had not
struggled and been so pitiful she would have given up, then, and been
content to take three weeks' strained peace to one of blank horror. But
his despair when he came out of his hell goaded her to keep on hoping.

She was washing the cups out on the verandah. Those of enamelled tin
Andrew was trusted to carry indoors as she wiped them. She heard a horse
coming along in the distance and guessed that it was a delayed reveller
from Klondyke as she saw a tall man whom she did not recognize make for
the storm centre of things in the ballroom. Clouds of dust and flour
were eddying out of the door in a stream of light from the kerosene
lamp. He dismounted and stood in the haze for a moment. Then he looked
round in bewilderment and caught sight of her. The gramophone was
playing "Rock of Ages."

"Can you tell me what _is_ going on in there? Is it St. Vitus' Dance?"

Marcella looked at him and gave a little shout of laughter.

"No, it's Mrs. Twist's birthday. Didn't you know?"

"How could I? Never heard of her. I'm looking for Mrs. Farne. They lent
me this animal at Klondyke. It seems days ago. They said she knew the
way blindfold. They didn't think to tell me she didn't know it unless
she was blindfold."

Marcella laughed again, and knew who he was.

"If it hadn't been for those fires I should never have got here. But,
perhaps you can tell me where Mrs. Farne lives? They all seemed to know
her at Klondyke."

Marcella pointed towards the glowing gorse.

"That's where I live. I'm Marcella Farne," she said. "But why didn't you
say you were coming? Mr. Twist would have fetched you in his buggy. He
loves meeting people at Cook's Wall because he tries to convince them
that it's a real road he's driving them along. And it isn't, you know."

He sat down on the edge of the verandah, looking distastefully at the
mare, who shook her head impatiently. Marcella gave her water and let
her wander, when she had taken off her saddle and bridle.

"Suppose you hadn't been able to ride