“You see, women, they—­they come by-and-by—­when the Orange Grove’s all—­all ready for ’em.  No man ever takes a woman on that kind of hunt.”

Her saddened face was very grave.  The Boy took heart.

“Now, the Pymeuts are going in a week or two, Nicholas said, to hunt caribou in the hills.”

“Yes.”

“But they won’t take you to hunt caribou.  No; they leave you at home.  It’s exactly the same with Orange Groves.  No nice girl ever goes hunting.”

Her lip trembled.

“Me—­I can fish.”

“Course you can.”  His spirits were reviving.  “You can do anything—­except hunt.”  As she lifted her head with an air of sudden protest he quashed her.  “From the beginning there’s been a law against that.  Squaws must stay at home and let the men do the huntin’.”

“Me ...  I can cook”—­she was crying now—­“while you hunt.  Good supper all ready when you come home.”

He shook his head solemnly.

“Perhaps you don’t know”—­she flashed a moment’s hope through her tears—­“me learn sew up at Holy Cross.  Sew up your socks for you when they open their mouths.”  But she could see that not even this grand new accomplishment availed.

“Can help pull sled,” she suggested, looking round a little wildly as if instantly to illustrate.  “Never tired,” she added, sobbing, and putting her hands up to her face.

“Sh! sh!  Don’t wake the Colonel.”  He got up hastily and stood beside her at the smouldering fire.  He patted her on the shoulder.  “Of course you’re a nice girl.  The nicest girl in the Yukon”—­he caught himself up as she dropped her hands from her face—­“that is, you will be, if you go home quietly.”

Again she hid her eyes.

Go home?  How could he send her home all that way at this time of night? 
It was a bothering business!

Again her hands fell from the wet unhappy face.  She shivered a little when she met his frowning looks, and turned away.  He stooped and picked up her mitten.  Why, you couldn’t turn a dog away on a night like this—­

Plague take the Pymeuts, root and branch!  She had shuffled her feet into her snow-shoe straps, and moved off in the dimness.  But for the sound of sobbing, he could not have told just where, in the softly-falling snow, Muckluck’s figure was fading into the dusk.  He hurried after her, conscience-stricken, but most unwilling.

“Look here,” he said, when he had caught up with her, “I’m sorry you came all this way in the cold—­very sorry.”  Her sobs burst out afresh, and louder now, away from the Colonel’s restraining presence.  “But, see here:  I can’t send you off like this.  You might die on the trail.”

“Yes, I think me die,” she agreed.

“No, don’t do that.  Come back, and we’ll tell the Colonel you’re going to stay by the fire till morning, and then go home.”

She walked steadily on.  “No, I go now.”