Felix got up and went to the tiny square window to look out. His voice was thick with excitement, but he did not answer directly.
"The storm has passed," he said, "and I must go back to my tent. I—I will think about what you say and tell you in the morning."
He went out into the dark, wet night, closing the door with a hand that shook and fumbled against the wooden latch.
The old miner must have slept little, for it was scarcely dawn before he had crossed the muddy slope to Felix's tent. Early as he was, the boy was before him, gathering up his possessions and thrusting them into his pack.
"You're going?" cried the man joyfully, but Felix shook his head.
"I'm going back," he said and beyond that he would tell him nothing.
He could not explain how, in the watches of the night, there had come to him the realization that the fever for finding gold is more consuming than the fever for getting it, that there is always the thirst to go on, to leave what one has and seek some new, dazzling discovery that seems just out of reach. To follow adventure is one thing; but, as the years pass, to surrender a whole life to a single and selfish desire is quite another. Some indwelling wisdom had told Felix that it was time to turn back, but he had no words by which to make the other understand. The old miner had given up to the dream long ago;
