Indeed, the gold was hers.
"Wal, Neale an' me couldn't calkilate how much, hevin' nothin' to
weigh the gold. But it's a fortune."
Allie turned from the pack to the earnest face of the trapper. There
had been many critical moments in her life, but never one with the
suspense, the fullness, the inevitableness of this.
"Did Neale send anything else?" she flashed.
"Wal, yes, an' I was comin' to thet," replied Slingerland, as he
unlaced the front of his hunting-frock. Presently he drew forth a
little leather note-book, which he handed to Allie. She took it
while looking up at him. Never had she seen his face radiate such
strange emotion. She divined it to be the supreme happiness inherent
in the power to give happiness.
Allie trembled. She opened the little book. Surely it would contain
a message that would be as sweet as life to dying eyes. She read a
name, written in ink, in a clear script: "Beauty Stanton."
Her pulses ceased to beat, her blood to flow, her heart to throb.
All seemed to freeze within her except her mind. And that leaped
fearfully over the first lines of a letter--then feverishly on to
the close--only to fly back and read again. Then she dropped the
book. She hid her face on Slingerland's breast. She clutched him
with frantic hands.
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