But she
had lived in a rut a long time without realizing it more than vaguely,
and there was something in her nature that responded instantly when she
contemplated journeying alone into a far country. She found herself
hungering for change, for a measure of freedom from petty restraints,
for elbow-room in the wide spaces, where one's neighbor might be ten or
forty miles away. She knew nothing whatever of such a life, but she
could feel a certain envy of those who led it.
She sat for a long time looking at the picture, thinking. Here was the
concrete, visible presentment of something that drew her strongly. She
found an atlas, and looked up Cariboo Meadows on the map. It was not
to be found, and Hazel judged it to be a purely local name. But the
letter told her that she would have to stage it a hundred and
sixty-five miles north from Ashcroft, B. C., where the writer would
meet her and drive her to the Meadows. She located the stage-line
terminal on the map, and ran her forefinger over the route. Mountain
and lake and stream lined and dotted and criss-crossed the province
from end to end of its seven-hundred-mile length. Back of where
Cariboo Meadows should be three or four mining camps snuggled high in
the mountains.
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