Bad luck, exciptin' her, there was niver but one woman I loved, an' that woman had mated beforetime.

Not a soul did I brathe a word to, trust me, nor even herself.

But she died.

God's love be with her." His chin went down upon his chest and he quested back to a flaxen-haired Saxon woman, strayed like a bit of sunshine into the log store by the Dyea River.

He looked up suddenly, and caught St.
Vincent's stare bent blankly to the floor as he mused on other things.
"A truce to foolishness, Vincent." The correspondent returned to himself with an effort and found the Irishman's small blue eyes boring into him.
"Are ye a brave man, Vincent ?" For a second's space they searched each other's souls.