At first none save Dacre knew what was going on. To MacGonigal and Jake it seemed that Power was merely seeking distraction by putting his affairs in order, and they regarded such healing activity with joy. People in Bison, too, were delighted by the change in his habits. The man who used to leave to his mother everything connected with the social well-being of the town now gave these matters his close interest, and inquired thoroughly into the philanthropic schemes to which she had devoted so much time and almost unstinted means; incidentally, he contrived to puzzle Dr. Stearn.

One day, when in Denver on business, he called at the doctor’s house.

“I want you to clear up a point that is bothering me,” he said. “Suppose nothing unusual had occurred to hasten my mother’s death, how long would she have lived?”

“Nothing unusual did occur,” insisted Stearn.

“Ah! I have expressed myself awkwardly. How long, then, under the most favorable conditions, could she have lived?”

“Three or four years.”

“Five?”

“It is possible.”

“Six?”

“I should doubt it.”

“Seven?”

“You are marching too rapidly. If Mrs. Power lived seven years with inflamed aortic valves, I should regard the fact as something akin to a miracle.”

“But miracles do happen, even in science?”

“Um—yes.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That is all I wish to know. Anything you want for your poorer patients?”

Stearn laughed. “Great Scott!” he cried, “you ought to come with me on a round of visits. It would be an eye-opener for a wealthy young sprig like you. Why, if I had ten dollars a day to spend on special diet, stimulants, and the like, I could get through every cent of the money.”

“Sorry I haven’t time today for slumming. Goodby. I may not see you again for quite awhile.”

“Going abroad?”

“Yes; but my plans are indefinite.”

“Well, young man, when you come back to Colorado, bring a wife, or, better still, look around for one before you go.”

“I’ll think it over. But I must be off. I’m due at my lawyer’s.”

“Those fellows who rake in gold by the bushel are all alike,” grumbled Stearn, when the door had closed on his visitor. “I did imagine, after what he had said, that he would skin a fifty off his wad for the benefit of the poor bedridden devils on my list. Ah, well! They’ll miss his mother at Bison. And what did he mean by his questions? On my honor, he struck me as slightly cracked.”

A fortnight later, when Power was far beyond the reach of thanks, the cashier of Smith & Moffat’s bank sent a formal little note, stating that he was instructed by Mr. John Darien Power to hand him (Dr. Stearn) one hundred dollars on the first of every month during the next seven years, “for the benefit of the sick poor in your district, and in memory of Mary Elizabeth Power.” If the doctor would kindly call, etc.

Stearn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Oh,” said he, to himself, “is that what he was after? Well, it’s a lesson, even to a grayhead like me. I misjudged him shockingly.”

That same period of seven years proved a stumbling-block to others beside the gruff but kind-hearted medico. Peter MacGonigal, for one, was “dog-goned etarnally” when he heard of it. A lawyer and two bankers, one from Denver and another from New York, were appointed trustees of Power’s estate, real and personal, and the arrangement was partly explained to Mac and Jake, so that they might understand how their interests would be safeguarded. On that historic occasion Jake’s real name was disclosed. Hitherto, no one in Bison believed that he possessed a surname; but, under pressure, he “allowed” he was “riz” in Texas, and his father’s name was James Cutler.

The arrangement was that MacGonigal should control the mine and Jake the ranch for seven years. If Power did not return about the end of that time, and both men were living, a further six months should be allowed to pass, and then each would become the owner of the respective properties under highly favorable terms.

“I may as well say that I shall come back right enough,” said Power, smiling at their bewilderment. “I am only settling matters now to please my lawyer, who wants to avoid a suit for intestacy, or a long argument to presume my death in case I am not heard of again. That is all.”

“Is it?” gasped MacGonigal.

“Yes. In any event, neither of you will be a loser.”

“But whar in hell air you goin’, Derry?”

This, from the man who never swore, was electrical. Jake said afterward that he felt his hair “stannin’ right up on end.”

“I am undertaking a quest,” said Power seriously.

“An’ what the—Gosh! I’ll bust! What’s a ‘quest,’ anyhow?”

“In this instance, it implies a pilgrimage in far lands. Don’t ask me anything else, Mac, because I shall not answer.”

“You’ll be needin’ a plug or two, maybe?” put in Jake anxiously.

“If I do, I’ll send word.”

They could extract no further information. Certain documents were signed with due solemnity, and the conclave broke up. The three trustees took the opportunity offered by Power’s departure for the town to sound Dacre, who was present, as to their client’s intentions. But he, as a loyal friend, though greatly in Power’s confidence, could not reveal his motives; while, as to his plans, he was free to admit, quite candidly, that he had not the slightest notion of their nature. Thus, Bison awoke one morning to find that its chief citizen had left the place overnight. It was only by degrees that the inhabitants discovered how thoroughly he had inquired into and anticipated local needs. Means were forthcoming for every judicious social enterprise. The man had gone; but his money remained.

Dacre accompanied him to Denver. They separated on a platform of the station at the foot of 17th Street, and, at the twelfth hour, the Englishman made a last effort to dissuade his friend from embarking on what he regarded as a fantastic adventure.

“I don’t know where you are heading for, Power,” he said. “You have not told me, and I can only suppose you mean to be lost to the world.”

“Something like that,” and Power smiled frankly. His face no longer wore the hunted, harassed aspect of a man who finds the unhappiness of life almost unbearable. A new look had come into his eyes. He seemed to be gazing constantly at some far horizon not bounded by earth and sky, a dim, sunless line beyond which lay a mysterious land of peace, a kingdom akin to Nirvana, the realm of extinction.

“Shall I not hear from you, even once a year?”

“It is improbable,” was the grave answer.

“But I refuse to believe that you and I are parting now forever.”

“If Providence wills it, we shall meet again. I hope so. If ever I find myself back in the crowded highway, I shall look for you.”

“Can’t I induce you, even now, to come with me to England? I’m tired of globe-trotting. You would find my place in Devonshire a quiet nook.”

“I’ll come to you sometime.”

Then, greatly daring, Dacre urged a plea so cruelly direct that he had not ventured to use it before this final moment.

“Have you reflected as to the effect of this action of yours on Nancy when she hears of it?” he said. “I may run up against her. There are only ten thousand of us, you know. She will surely ask me what has become of you. What am I to tell her?”

Power had not spoken of Nancy during a month or more, and his friend thought that a sudden thrusting of her image before his eyes would startle him out of the semihypnotic condition in which he appeared to exist. But, to Dacre’s chagrin and astonishment, the ruse failed utterly. Power evidently found the point thus unexpectedly raised somewhat perplexing.

“Tell her?” he repeated, in a most matter-of-fact tone. “Is it necessary to tell her anything? But, of course, you will say you saw the last of me, and a woman hates to be ignored, even by the man she has discarded. Tell her, then, that in India there are Hindus of devout intent who measure two thousand miles of a sacred river by prostrations along its banks. These devotees have done no wrong to any human being, and their notion of service is sublimely ridiculous. But if, among them, was a poor wretch who had committed an unforgivable crime, and he thought to expiate it by carrying sharp flints on which to fling himself each yard of the way, one could understand him.”

“That is no message to Nancy,” persisted Dacre.

“If she pouts, and says so, remind her of my mother’s death.”

“Oh, I shall leave you in anger if you talk in that way.”

“No, you won’t. You’re really more than a little sorry for me. You think, perhaps, I am rather mad; but, on reflection, you will be pleased at that, because a lunatic can be contented in his folly, and I know you wish me content. Here’s my train. San Francisco is a great jumping-off place. ‘Last seen in San Francisco’ is quite a common headline in the newspapers. Goodby! I’ll look you up in Devonshire, never fear. Mind you are there to receive me.”

And he was gone. Dacre turned his face to the east. During the long journey to Washington, where he meant to visit some friends before crossing the Atlantic, he thought often of Power. Speaking of him one day to a man of some influence in the Department of State, he inquired if there were any means of keeping track of the wanderer without his cognizance.

“Yes,” said the official. “We can send out a private consular note. Have you any idea which way he is heading?”

“Not the faintest. From a sort of hint he let drop, he may intend joining a Buddhist community in India or Ceylon. At any rate, he had been reading some book on India. But the assumption is too vague to be of value.”

“Well, I’ll see what can be done.”

By the next mail, every United States consulate in the world was asked to report to Washington if John Darien Power, an American citizen, appeared within its jurisdiction. No report ever arrived. Long before the inquiry reached the one consul who might have learned something of his whereabouts, Power had vanished off the map; a phrase which, in this instance, happened to be literally true. Thus, Dacre’s well-meant efforts to keep in touch with his friend were frustrated, and, for the time, he drops out of this history.

When Power arrived in San Francisco, though his definite project as to the future involved a long disappearance from the haunts of civilized men, he had not decided where to pitch his tent. He had actually thought, as Dacre surmised, of going to the inner fastnesses of the Himalayas; but his voluntary exile connoted something more than mere effacement—it meant suffering, and sacrifice, and the succor of earth’s miserable ones—and the barrier of language shut out the East. Again, there was little, if any, element of danger attached to a sojourn in the hilly solitudes of Hindustan; it even appealed to his student’s proclivities. So, for that reason alone, it was dismissed. Spanish was the only foreign tongue he was thoroughly conversant with, and his thoughts turned to Spanish-speaking South America. He made up his mind to go there, and search for his field.

San Francisco was the city of his childhood. In happier conditions, it could hardly fail to evoke pleasant memories. The Moores lived there, and they, aided by a host of oldtime acquaintances, would gladly have made him welcome; but he avoided such snares by driving straight to the offices of the Pacific Steamship Company, where he ascertained that the mail steamer Panama sailed for Valparaiso that day.

He was on board within the hour, and remained in his cabin until the engines started. Then he went on deck, and bade farewell to a land where he had worked, and dreamed, and endured, during the full years of his lost youth. Practically his last intimate glimpse of the West, save for distant views of the California coast, and a fleeting call at San Diego, was obtained when the vessel passed through the Golden Gate. Bitter-sweet recollections warred in heart and brain as he watched the beautiful and well-loved panorama. Every bold promontory and sequestered bay of the miles of narrow straits were familiar to his eyes. If there was aught of weakness in his composition, it must have made its presence felt then; but that there could be any turning back did not even occur to his vague thoughts. He might be moving swiftly into unfathomable night; his action might be deemed either stubborn or irresponsible; he might be regarded as the victim of deep delusion; but at least it must be said of him that he never flinched from the barren outlook or admitted the possibility of retreat. Hitherto love for his mother had exercised the most lasting and salutary influence on his life. The depth and intensity of that love was the gage of his horror when he discovered that he had caused her death. His emotions were incapable of logical analysis. She was dead. His forbidden passion for another woman had killed her. She might have lived seven years. For seven years he would placate her spirit “in weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness.”

His strength was that of the mind. He was of the order of chivalry. His renunciation would have been well understood by a few men who lived and had their being a thousand years ago. In the America of the early ’90’s, had his undertaking been known, which it was not, nor ever has been till this writing, the heedless majority must have wagged sapient noddles, and cried in chorus, “He is mad!”

A discriminating purser allotted him to the captain’s table, and at dinner that evening he found himself next to a Chilean merchant. This man sat on his left. On the right was an empty chair, which adjoined the commander’s position at the head of the table.

The captain greeted him with the ready camaraderie of the sea.

“My ward has not put in an appearance,” he said, nodding toward the vacant place. “She can’t be ill yet, anyhow; but, like most women, I suppose, she is unpunctual.”

“Is lack of punctuality a feminine failing?” said Power, seeing that he was expected to answer.

The sailor laughed. “It is evident you are not a married man, Mr. Power, or you wouldn’t need to ask,” he said.

“How true!” piped the Chilean, in a singularly high-pitched voice. The people at that end of the table grinned, and the Chilean instantly won a reputation as a humorist. Some days passed before they discovered that he had brought off his only joke thus early in the voyage. He possessed a fund of information about nitrate and guano; but these topics were not popular, so his conversational talent exhausted itself in that one comment. On this occasion it happened to be appropriate.

Power, who had summed him up as a dull dog at a glance, was surveying him with a degree of surprise when he became aware that the missing lady had arrived. She had slipped into her chair quietly, and was apologizing for being late.

“I am usually a most methodical person,” she said; “but I mislaid a key——”

She broke off, in smiling embarrassment, because of the general laughter, and the captain had to explain that the wretched males present had been vilifying her sex.

“There was one exception, though,” he rattled on. “Our friend on your left seemed to think otherwise. Mr. Power, let me introduce you to Miss Marguerite Sinclair.”

Yielding to convention—most potent of human ties—Power turned with a polite bow; but not even his preoccupied mind was proof against the feeling of stupefaction caused by his first impression of the captain’s “ward.” She certainly owned a girlish and graceful figure, and her brown hair was glossy and abundant; but her skin was withered, and that side of her face which was visible bore a number of livid scars. It was impossible to determine her age. The slim, willowy body and really beautiful hair apparently indicated youth; but the appalling disfigurement of the face, which extended from the top of the cheek to the slender column of her neck, simply forbade any accurate estimate. The pity of it was that her profile was faultless, and a little pink shell of an ear was almost fantastically opposed to the shriveled and scar-seamed features adjoining it. Yet, in some indescribable way, she reminded him of Nancy, and the notion was so grotesque and abhorrent that he shuddered.

Luckily, her attention was drawn for a moment by a steward, and he had recovered his wits before she looked at him. Then he found that her eyes were peculiarly brilliant. He noted, with positive relief, that they were not blue, like Nancy’s, but brown. They had a curiously penetrative quality, too, which seemed to dispel the repugnant effect of the accident. He saw now that she must have sustained some grave injury, which marred her good looks.

“Thank you,” she said composedly. “Usually, I have to fight my own battles. It will be quite a relief to count on an ally so valiant that he draws the sword without waiting to see the person whose cause he espouses.”

Her voice was cultured and incisive. It seemed to offer a challenge to all the world; yet it held an arresting note of cheerful irony that betokened an equable temperament. After the first shock of surprise, almost of dismay, had passed, Power fancied that she carried herself thus bravely as a protest against the brutality of fate.

They spoke but little during the progress of the meal, and he avoided looking at her. Somehow, he was aware that she would resent such delicacy; but the alternative of a too curious inspection was distasteful. Of two evils he chose the less; though the fact that any choice was called for in the matter was embarrassing.

He gathered that the captain and Miss Sinclair were old acquaintances. There were allusions to relatives and friends. She was addressed as “Meg.” It was to be inferred that her mother was dead, that she had been attending a session of the Los Angeles University, and that she was now on the way to rejoin her father.

Some man at the table spoke of the pending Presidential campaign, and the “sixteen to one” currency ratio started a lively argument. An advocate of a gold basis snorted derisively that silver could be mined profitably at eighteen cents an ounce.

“How true!” said the Chilean, and again he scored.

Power escaped to the deck. He lit a cigar, and leaned on the starboard rail, gazing at a magnificent sunset which glorified the infinity of waters. He wished now he had avoided a mail steamer, with its elaborate elegancies. Had he not acted so precipitately he could have sought the rough hospitality of some grimy tramp, whence woman was barred, and whose skipper would leave him in peace.

Suddenly he was disturbed by Miss Sinclair, who joined him at the rail with a quiet confidence of demeanor that spoke volumes for her self-possession.

“Though I appeared to make light of it at the moment, I was glad to hear that you defended me,” she said, smiling at him with those lustrous, deep-seeing eyes.

He was rendered nearly tongue-tied by confusion; but managed to blurt out, awkwardly enough, that his championship had been involuntary. She laughed quite pleasantly.

“Does that mean that, now you have seen me, you deem me capable of any iniquity?” she said.

“You give me credit for a faculty of divination which I do not possess,” he retorted, wondering if she was really alluding to her own unsightliness.

“Ah, I think I shall like you,” she said. “Most people whom I meet for the first time try to show their pity by being sympathetic. They simply daren’t say, ‘Good gracious! what has happened to your poor face?’ so they put on their best hospital-ward-visitor air, and feel so sorry for me that I want to smack them. Now, you admit candidly that I may be as villainous as I look, and such honesty is a positive relief.”

“Even to earn your good opinion I refuse to accept that unfair reading of my words,” he said.

“Then what did you mean?”

“I’m afraid I was talking at random.”

“You don’t look that sort of person. Really, Mr. Power, you and I will get on famously together if we tell each other the real truth. Are we to be fellow-passengers as far as Valparaiso?”

“Yes.”

“There, you see! Those other Philistines would have smirked and said, ‘I hope so.’ I shall enjoy this trip. Generally, a sea-voyage bores me.”

“Are you much traveled, then?”

“I live in Patagonia.”

“Does that statement answer my question?”

“Well, yes. No one lives in Patagonia for amusement, and some among those who are compelled to reside there get away as often as their means permit. Patagonian boarding-houses don’t advertise ‘young and musical society,’ I assure you. Our population is something under one to the square mile.”

“My knowledge of the Patagonian is limited; but I have always understood that he requires just about that amount of space.”

“Ah, no! Our poor giants are nearly extinct. There is hardly a hundred of them, all told.”

“My! Who, or what, cleared them out?”

“Measles. Just imagine a Brobdingnagian measle!”

“Are you, then, a type of the present inhabitants?”

“No. My ailment was due to being knocked insensible during a fire.”

Power reddened. “You are an adept in twisting the sense of the most commonplace remarks, to say the least,” he said, careless whether or not he annoyed her.

She parried this thrust with sublime unconcern: “I know. It’s horrid. But I had to tell you. Now I’ll be good, and take myself off. You’ll be heartily sick of my company after five thousand miles of it.”

Certainly Miss Marguerite Sinclair’s unusual methods of expressing herself struck a jarring note, and, whether by chance or by the exercise of rare intuition, the one note able to penetrate Power’s armor of indifference. Her somewhat bizarre personality was vivid in his mind long after she had left him; but night and the stars brought other thoughts, and blurred the sharp lines of the vignette.

Next morning he breakfasted early, and alone. After a long tramp on the upper deck, he asked a steward where a deck-chair ordered overnight had been placed. The man inquired his name, consulted a list, and led him through the music-room to the port side. The chair stood aft of the companionway, and it was irritating to find the neighboring chair occupied by a young and remarkably pretty woman, who seemed to be deeply engrossed in a book.

“I prefer the starboard side,” he said sharply. “Bring it along, and I’ll show you where to put it.”

The lady lifted her eyes to his in an amused, sidelong glance.

“Good-morning, Mr. Power,” she said. “You are pardoned for thinking there is a conspiracy floating around; but there isn’t.”

Power was staggered; but he did not mean to provide a permanent target for the shafts of Miss Marguerite Sinclair’s wit. At present she was treating him as though she were “rotting” some small schoolboy.

“Leave the chair—I have changed my mind,” he said, and dismissed the steward with a tip. Then he sat down, and scrutinized the girl so brazenly that her eyes fell, and she blushed.

“There is no help for it,” he explained. “I suppose we ought to be able, at least, to recognize each other when we meet.”

“I should know you again in twenty years; you are not a two-faced person, like me,” she retorted.

“It is consoling to find that you can be as unfair to yourself as you were to me last night.”

“Would you have me twist my neck like a parrot, and say, ‘Please look on this picture, not on that,’ when a stranger happens to be to port instead of to starboard?”

“I do really think it would be worth while,” he said.

He saw now that she was a girl of twenty or thereabouts, and a singularly attractive one from this new point of view. He felt that he must atone for the curt order to the steward; but she only laughed at the implied compliment.

“The poor fellow saw us talking together, and arranged the chairs accordingly,” she said. “I’m frankly pleased, and you say you are; so that’s all right. Let us swap symptoms, as grand folk do in society. I have told you how I secured my keepsake. How did you acquire a limp?”

“By lying too long in one position,” he replied, unconsciously emulating her flippancy.

“Dear me! Why didn’t you try some other sort of lie?”

“Because I was pinned down to the original statement by a ton of rock.”

“I should have thought that the noise would have waked you up.”

“That remark is a trifle too subtle for my dull wits.”

“I watched you strolling about this morning, and decided that you were walking in your sleep.”

“You shouldn’t jump at conclusions. If I judged you by your pointed style of speech, I might regard you as a new species of porcupine.”

“Good!” she said approvingly. “I was sure we’d become friends. I wish my father knew you. He would like you.”

“Taking a line through you, may I say that the liking would be mutual?”

“Are you, by any chance, thinking of visiting Patagonia?”

“No,” he said.

For some reason, hard to define, he was convinced that Patagonia, though reported barren, would prove a rather unsuitable place for an anchorite.

“Are you interested in mines?” she inquired, after a pause.

“Yes.”

“What sort of mines, copper or silver?”

“Neither.”

“Really, you are most informing.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said hurriedly. “My mind wandered for the moment. I was thinking how extraordinary it was that a young lady should hit on my profession so promptly.”

“No marvel at all. Rocks fall mostly on miners.”

“An excellent example of ratiocinative reasoning.”

“Don’t imagine you can crush me with a word weighing a ton. Dad and I practise them on each other. They keep our brains from rusting, a common enough process on a ranch. Have you ever lived on one?”

He stirred uneasily. Evidently, Patagonia shared certain characteristics with Colorado. Those absurdly shrewd eyes of hers missed nothing.

“Have I stuck another quill into you?” she went on. “If so, it was an involuntary effort.”

“As it happens, I do live—I mean, I have lived—on a ranch. I own one; but it contains a gold mine. So, you see, your divination is almost uncanny.”

“I am still guessing why you are coming to South America. Don’t tell me if you prefer to make a mystery of your intentions.”

“Will you be vexed if I avail myself of your offer, and remain silent?”

“Vexed? I shall be delighted. It is a positive joy to meet a man who had rather appear uncivil than coin a polite fib. The most truthful of men lie glibly to girls. They think it is good for us. Now, I regard you as a person who hates deceit in either man or woman.”

He turned and stared at her fixedly. “May I ask how old you are?” he said abruptly.

“Nineteen.”

“You talk like a woman of forty, and a wise one at that.”

“I was grown-up at seven. At twelve I got that crack on the head I told you of last night, when our homestead was attacked and burnt by drunken Indians——”

“Are there Indians of that sort in Patagonia?” he broke in.

“Fifty-seven varieties—all bad. Some have souls, I believe; others rank lower than the beasts. But what have I said now?” for he had sprung upright as if in a great hurry to get away.

“Forgive me,” he muttered. “I have just remembered some important letters I must write before we call at San Diego.”

“So,” she communed, when he had vanished through the companion-hatch, “even Mr. John Darien Power can prevaricate at times. But he is a nice man. I wonder why some woman treated him badly. It must have been a woman. If it were a man, he wouldn’t have run!”

The two became firm friends. As the days passed, and the Panama plodded south through tropic seas, Power learned so many details of the girl’s life that he could have written her biography. Her father was an Englishman, who found a wife in Los Angeles. After being swindled by a nitrate company, he had the good fortune to recover from the assets a tract of land in the Chubut Territory of Patagonia. It contained no nitrate; but the discovery that it would grow good cattle came in the nick of time to save him from ruin. His wife was killed in the Indian raid which had left its disastrous record on his daughter; but Argentine troops had exterminated the Araucanian tribe responsible for the outrage, a rare event in that district, and the ranch had prospered. Each year or eighteen months Marguerite visited her maternal relatives in Los Angeles, and worked hard at the university for a term. By that device, it was evident, Sinclair salved certain twinges of conscience for keeping her bright intelligence pent in a Patagonian ranch. The two hated these breaks in their home life. However, they provided a middle way; so father and daughter made the best of them.

Although the eastern route, via New York, was quicker, the girl herself elected for the long sea voyage down the Chile coast, and through the Straits of Magellan. She knew most of the ships plying in those waters, and felt more at home in them.

She was a prime favorite on board the Panama—among the men; her sharp tongue and amazing outspokenness did not endear her to the women. Some of them resented her popularity, and tried to snub her, and the result was a foregone conclusion. Quite unconsciously, Power caused one of these brief combats. A pretty, but vapid, and rather rapid lady from Iquique thought that a good-looking young man like the American was devoting far too much time to Miss Sinclair, and resolved to detach him.

She failed lamentably, and, in her pique, so far forgot herself as to inquire sarcastically what magnetic influence the girl exerted that she was able to keep Power in constant attendance.

Marguerite surveyed her rival with bland unconcern. “You are mistaken,” she cried. “He cares nothing for women’s society.”

The other thought she saw an opening, and struck viciously. “So it would appear,” she smirked. “You are the only woman on the ship he has spoken to.”

“Yes. Odd, isn’t it?”

“Distinctly so. Perhaps he is one of those rare mortals who really believe that beauty is only skin deep.”

“How consoling that great and original thought must be for you!”

“For me? Why for me?”

“Because, like charity, beauty covers a multitude of sins.”

Someone overheard this passage at arms. The quip held a barbed shaft which flew far, even unto Iquique, and the Chilean merchant regained lost ground when he heard of it by exclaiming, “How true!”

But, strive as she might, and did, Marguerite never received any confidences from Power. They talked about many things; but his past history remained a closed volume. The long, hot days succeeded one another with monotonous regularity. When the red cliffs of Valparaiso appeared beneath the snow-crowned line of the Andes, those two, perhaps, were the only people on the ship who regretted that the voyage was at an end.

“So we part here,” said the girl, as Power found her waiting near the gangway to go ashore in the tender.

“Yes,” he said. “When you are older you will realize that life consists largely of partings.”

“I know that now,” she said. She was wearing a white double veil, which was her habit when in towns, so he could not see that she was very pale. He was aware of an irksome pause—a rare thing as between Marguerite Sinclair and himself.

“You go straight to your new steamer, I believe?” he went on, forcing the conversation.

“Yes. And you?”

“I drift into a hotel for a couple of days.”

“And I cannot tempt you to visit my poor but proud Patagonia?”

“I fear not.”

“Goodby, Mr. Power.”

She shook hands with him hurriedly, and joined the crush of passengers in the gangway. She moved with the easy grace of one who lived much in the open air. For the hundredth time she reminded him of Nancy. He sighed. At last his seven years’ pilgrimage had really begun!