At the sound of his guest's footsteps he started, and the noise of preparation recommenced.
Uncle Dick returned to his chair by the fire.

Leaning towards the chair of the close-shaven man, he said in a lower voice:-- "He was off agin!" "What ?" "Thinkin' of that wife of his." "What about his wife ?" asked Key, lowering his voice also.
The three men's heads were close together.
"When Collinson fixed up this mill he sent for his wife in the States," said Uncle Dick, in a half whisper, "waited a year for her, hanging round and boarding every emigrant wagon that came through the Pass.
She didn't come--only the news that she was dead." He paused and nudged his chair still closer--the heads were almost touching.

"They say, over in the Bar"-- his voice had sunk to a complete whisper--"that it was a lie! That she ran away with the man that was fetchin' her out.

Three thousand miles and three weeks with another man upsets some women.

But HE knows nothing about it, only he sometimes kinder goes off looney-like, thinking of her." He stopped, the heads separated; Collinson had appeared at the doorway, his melancholy patience apparently unchanged.
"Grub's on, gentlemen; sit by and eat." The humble meal was dispatched with zest and silence.