He had thought nothing of it at the time; but, looking back, he was haunted by every little thing that had happened.

In the light of the tragic event, he could understand everything--her quietness, that calm certitude as if all vexing questions of living had been smoothed out and were gone, and that certain ethereal sweetness about all that she had said and done that had been almost maternal.

He remembered the way she had looked at him, how she had laughed when he narrated Mickey Dolan's mistake in staking the fraction on Skookum Gulch.

Her laughter had been lightly joyous, while at the same time it had lacked its oldtime robustness.
Not that she had been grave or subdued.

On the contrary, she had been so patently content, so filled with peace.
She had fooled him, fool that he was.