It was the beginning of June, and my wife and I had travelled since the
end of April, when the break-up had visited the land somewhat earlier
than usual. It was the season of sound after the silence of winter, the
season which we call Sekwun, or the Spring. The streams were running
among the hills, the wavies were calling overhead, the snow buntings
were whirling past in clouds, and the crocus made the slopes purple;
and we were happy--we were coming home. The long night was done, the
aurora had gone out, and the sun turned everything into gold.
The five awful months filling the interval are black to look upon now.
I had nothing to bind me to the false Bonanza. I had parted with my
claim, not unselfishly, but because I needed it no more.
I had found an old gentleman, another Englishman, and a very frail old
man, who had been ruined by his only son, and who had come into the new
land to try and find a little gold, not so much for the comforting of
his old age as to enable him to pay the profligate’s debts, and so to
clear an honourable name. He had often come to my shanty during the
eternal night, and he was never so happy as when talking about his
unnatural son.
Once, in conversation, he began to narrate how he had followed the
young man after nightfall along the London way which he called
Piccadilly, being anxious to learn in what company the scapegrace spent
his time; but the latter discovered the nearness of his father, and
escaped.
“He eluded me beside the Park,” said the old man, “but I could not be
sure which way he went. However, later that night--”