way to Blanche. Perhaps it was the elevation of the liquor, but he seemed to discover new virtues in her rugged face.
Frona had put on her dried moccasins and risen to her feet, and was listening patiently to Jake Cornell, who hiccoughed a last incoherent toast.
"To the--hic--man," he rumbled, cavernously, "the man--hic--that made--that made--"
"The blessed country," volunteered the Virgin.
"True, my dear--hic. To the man that made the blessed country. To--hic--to Jacob Welse!"
"And a rider!" Blanche cried. "To Jacob Welse's daughter!"
"Ay! Standing! And bottoms up!"
"Oh! she's a jolly good fellow," Del led off, the drink ruddying his cheek.
"I'd like to shake hands with you, just once," Blanche said in a low voice, while the rest were chorusing.
Frona slipped her mitten, which she had already put on, and the pressure was firm between them.
"No," she said to Corliss, who had put on his cap and was tying the ear-flaps; "Blanche tells me the Pently's are only half a mile from here. The trail is straight. I'll not hear of any one accompanying me.
"No!" This time she spoke so authoritatively that he tossed his cap into the bunk. "Good-night, all!" she called, sweeping the roisterers with a smile.
But Corliss saw her to the door and stepped outside. She glanced up to him. Her hood was pulled only partly up, and her face shone alluringly under the starlight.
"I--Frona . . . I wish--"
"Don't be alarmed," she whispered. "I'll not tell on you, Vance."
He saw the mocking glint in her eyes, but tried to go on. "I wish to explain just how--"
"No need. I understand. But at the same time I must confess I do not particularly admire your taste--"
"Frona!" The evident pain in his voice reached her.
"Oh, you big foolish!" she laughed. "Don't I know? Didn't Blanche tell me she wet her feet?"
Corliss bowed his head. "Truly, Frona, you are the most consistent woman I ever met. Furthermore," with a straightening of his form and a dominant assertion in his voice, "this is not the last."
She tried to stop him, but he continued. "I feel, I know that things will turn out differently. To fling your own words back at you, all the factors have not been taken into consideration. As for St. Vincent . . . I'll have you yet. For that matter, now could not be too soon!"
He flashed out hungry arms to her, but she read quicker than he moved, and, laughing, eluded him and ran lightly down the trail.
"Come back, Frona! Come back!" he called, "I am sorry."
"No, you're not," came the answer. "And I'd be sorry if you were. Good-night."
He watched her merge into the shadows, then entered the cabin. He had utterly forgotten the scene within, and at the first glance it startled him. Cariboo Blanche was crying softly to herself. Her eyes were luminous and moist, and, as he looked, a lone tear stole down her cheek. Bishop's face had gone serious. The Virgin had sprawled head and shoulders on the table, amid overturned mugs and dripping lees, and Cornell was tittubating over her, hiccoughing, and repeating vacuously, "You're all right, my dear. You're all right."
But the Virgin was inconsolable. "O Gawd! Wen I think on wot is, an' was . . . an' no fault of mine. No fault of mine, I tell you!" she shrieked with quick fierceness. "'Ow was I born, I ask? Wot was my old man? A drunk, a chronic. An' my old woman? Talk of Whitechapel! 'Oo guv a cent for me, or 'ow I was dragged up? 'Oo cared a rap, I say? 'Oo cared a rap?"
A sudden revulsion came over Corliss. "Hold your tongue!" he ordered.
The Virgin raised her head, her loosened hair streaming about her like a Fury's. "Wot is she?" she sneered. "Sweet'eart?"
Corliss whirled upon her savagely, face white and voice shaking with passion.
The Virgin cowered down and instinctively threw up her hands to protect her face. "Don't 'it me, sir!" she whined. "Don't 'it me!"
He was frightened at himself, and waited till he could gather control. "Now," he said, calmly, "get into your things and go. All of you. Clear out. Vamose."
"You're no man, you ain't," the Virgin snarled, discovering that physical assault was not imminent.
But Corliss herded her particularly to the door, and gave no heed.
"A-turning ladies out!" she sniffed, with a stumble over the threshold;
"No offence," Jake Cornell muttered, pacifically; "no offence."
"Good-night. Sorry," Corliss said to Blanche, with the shadow of a forgiving smile, as she passed out.
"You're a toff! That's wot you are, a bloomin' toff!" the Virgin howled back as he shut the door.
He looked blankly at Del Bishop and surveyed the sodden confusion on the table. Then he walked over and threw himself down on his bunk. Bishop leaned an elbow on the table and pulled at his wheezy pipe. The lamp smoked, flickered, and went out; but still he remained, filling his pipe again and again and striking endless matches.
"Del! Are you awake?" Corliss called at last.
Del grunted.
"I was a cur to turn them out into the snow. I am ashamed."
"Sure," was the affirmation.
A long silence followed. Del knocked the ashes out and raised up.
"'Sleep?" he called.
There was no reply, and he walked to the bunk softly and pulled the blankets over the engineer.
Chapter XXI
"Yes; what does it all mean?" Corliss stretched lazily, and cocked up his feet on the table. He was not especially interested, but Colonel Trethaway persisted in talking seriously.
"That's it! The very thing--the old and ever young demand which man slaps into the face of the universe." The colonel searched among the scraps in his note-book. "See," holding up a soiled slip of typed paper, "I copied this out years ago. Listen. 'What a monstrous spectre is this man, this disease of the agglutinated dust, lifting alternate feet or lying drugged with slumber; killing, feeding, growing, bringing forth small copies of himself; grown up with hair like grass, fitted with eyes that glitter in his face; a thing to set children screaming. Poor soul, here for so little, cast among so many hardships, filled with desires so incommensurate and so inconsistent; savagely surrounded, savagely descended, irremediably condemned to prey upon his fellow-lives. Infinitely childish, often admirably valiant, often touchingly kind; sitting down to debate of right or wrong and the attributes of the deity; rising up to battle for an egg or die for an idea!'
"And
