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Haythorne, finishing his mug of coffee, grunted uninterestedly and lighted his pipe.
"It was fortunate they had no children," Messner continued.
But Haythorne, with a glance at the stove, pulled on his cap and mittens.
"I'm going out to get some wood," he said. "Then I can take off my moccasins and he comfortable."
The door slammed behind him. For a long minute there was silence. The man continued in the same position
on the bed. The woman sat on the grub-box, facing him.
"What are you going to do?" she asked abruptly.
Messner looked at her with lazy indecision. "What do you think I ought to do? Nothing scenic, I hope. You
see I am stiff and trail-sore, and this bunk is so restful."
She gnawed her lower lip and fumed dumbly.
"But - " she began vehemently, then clenched her hands and stopped.
"I hope you don't want me to kill Mr. -er - Haythorne," he said gently, almost pleadingly. "It would be most
distressing, and, I assure you, really it is unnecessary."
"But you must do something," she cried.
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Love of Life and Other Stories
"On the contrary, it is quite conceivable that I do not have to do anything."
"You would stay here?"
He nodded.
She glanced desperately around the cabin and at the bed unrolled on the other bunk. "Night is coming on. You
can't stop here. You can't! I tell you, you simply can't!"
"Of course I can. I might remind you that I found this cabin first and that you are my guests."
Again her eyes travelled around the room, and the terror in them leaped up at sight of the other bunk.
"Then we'll have to go," she announced decisively.
"Impossible. You have a dry, hacking cough - the sort Mr. - er - Haythorne so aptly described. You've
already slightly chilled your lungs. Besides, he is a physician and knows. He would never permit it."
"Then what are you going to do?" she demanded again, with a tense, quiet utterance that boded an outbreak.
Messner regarded her in a way that was almost paternal, what of the profundity of pity and patience with
which he contrived to suffuse it.
"My dear Theresa, as I told you before, I don't know. I really haven't thought about it."
"Oh! You drive me mad!" She sprang to her feet, wringing her hands in impotent wrath. "You never used to
be this way."
"I used to be all softness and gentleness," he nodded concurrence. "Was that why you left me?"
"You are so different, so dreadfully calm. You frighten me. I feel you have something terrible planned all the
while. But whatever you do, don't do anything rash. Don't get excited - "
"I don't get excited any more," he interrupted. "Not since you went away."
"You have improved - remarkably," she retorted.
He smiled acknowledgment. "While I am thinking about what I shall do, I'll tell you what you will have to do
- tell Mr. - er - Haythorne who I am. It may make our stay in this cabin more - may I say, sociable?"
"Why have you followed me into this frightful country?" she asked irrelevantly.
"Don't think I came here looking for you, Theresa. Your vanity shall not be tickled by any such
misapprehension. Our meeting is wholly fortuitous. I broke with the life academic and I had to go somewhere.
To be honest, I came into the Klondike because I thought it the place you were least liable to be in."
There was a fumbling at the latch, then the door swung in and Haythorne entered with an armful of firewood.
At the first warning, Theresa began casually to clear away the dishes. Haythorne went out again after more
wood.
"Why didn't you introduce us?" Messner queried.
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Love of Life and Other Stories
"I'll tell him," she replied, with a toss of her head. "Don't think I'm afraid."
"I never knew you to be afraid, very much, of anything."
"And I'm not afraid of confession, either," she said, with softening face and voice.
"In your case, I fear, confession is exploitation by indirection, profit-making by ruse, self-aggrandizement at
the expense of God."
"Don't be literary," she pouted, with growing tenderness. "I never did like epigrammatic discussion. Besides,
I'm not afraid to ask you to forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive, Theresa. I really should thank you. True, at first I suffered; and then, with all the
graciousness of spring, it dawned upon me that I was happy, very happy. It was a most amazing discovery."
"But what if I should return to you?" she asked.
"I should" (he looked at her whimsically), "be greatly perturbed."
"I am your wife. You know you have never got a divorce."
"I see," he meditated. "I have been careless. It will be one of the first things I attend to."
She came over to his side, resting her hand on his arm. "You don't want me, John?" Her voice was soft and
caressing, her hand rested like a lure. "If I told you I had made a mistake? If I told you that I was very
unhappy? - and I am. And I did make a mistake."
Fear began to grow on Messner. He felt himself wilting under the lightly laid hand. The situation was slipping
away from him, all his beautiful calmness was going. She looked at him with melting eyes, and he, too,
seemed all dew and melting. He felt himself on the edge of an abyss, powerless to withstand the force that was
drawing him over.
"I am coming back to you, John. I am coming back to-day . . . now."
As in a nightmare, he strove under the hand. While she talked, he seemed to hear, rippling softly, the song of
the Lorelei. It was as though, somewhere, a piano were playing and the actual notes were impinging on his
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