I fail to say what I feel.

Let me try again.
Underneath all you do carry the stamp of the breed.

I knew I risked the loss of that when I sent you away, but I had faith in the persistence of the blood and I took the chance; doubted and feared when you were gone; waited and prayed dumbly, and hoped oftentimes hopelessly; and then the day dawned, the day of days! When they said your boat was coming, death rose and walked on the one hand of me, and on the other life everlasting.

_Made or marred; made or marred_,--the words rang through my brain till they maddened me.

Would the Welse remain the Welse?
Would the blood persist?
Would the young shoot rise straight and tall and strong, green with sap and fresh and vigorous?
Or would it droop limp and lifeless, withered by the heats of the world other than the little simple, natural Dyea world?
"It was the day of days, and yet it was a lingering, watching, waiting tragedy.