her, and the camera had clicked at the psychological moment of her bird-like poise when she was not yet decided whether to turn in flight or remain and punish the intruder with her anger.  It was quite clear to him.  Any girl caught in the same way might have betrayed the same emotions.  But—­Firepan Creek—­Stikine River....  And she was wild.  She was a creature of those mountains and that wild gorge, wherever they were—­and beautiful—­slender as a flower—­lovelier than....

David set his lips tight.  They shut off a quick breath, a gasp, the sharp surge of a sudden pain.  Swift as his thoughts there had come a transformation in the picture before his eyes—­a drawing of a curtain over it, like a golden veil; and then she was standing there, and the gold had gathered about her in the wonderful mantle of her hair—­shining, dishevelled hair—­a bare, white arm thrust upward through its sheen, and her face—­taunting, unafraid—­laughing at him!  Good God! could he never kill that memory?  Was it upon him again to-night, clutching at his throat, stifling his heart, grinding him into the agony he could not fight—­that vision of her—­his wife? That girl on her rock, so like a slender flower!  That woman in her room, so like a golden goddess!  Both caught—­unexpectedly!  What devil-spirit had made him pick up this picture from the woman’s seat?  What....

His fingers tightened upon the photograph, ready to tear it into bits.  The cardboard ripped an inch—­and he stopped suddenly his impulse to destroy.  The girl was looking at him again from out of the picture—­looking at him with clear, wide eyes, surprised at his weakness, startled by the fierceness of his assault upon her, wondering, amazed, questioning him!  For the first time he saw what he had missed before—­that questioning in her eyes.  It was as if she were on the point of asking him something—­as if her voice had just come from between her parted lips, or were about to come.  And for him; that was it—­for him!

His fingers relaxed.  He smoothed down the torn edge of the cardboard, as if it had been a wound in his own flesh.  After all, this inanimate thing was very much like himself.  It was lost, a thing out of place, and out of home; a wanderer from now on depending largely, like himself, on the charity of fate.  Almost gently he returned it to its newspaper wrapping.  Deep within him there was a sentiment which made him cherish little things which had belonged to the past—­a baby’s shoe, a faded ribbon, a withered flower that she had worn on the night they were married; and memories—­memories that he might better have let droop and die.  Something of this spirit was in the touch of his fingers as he placed the photograph on the table.