“I wet my feet in the same place,” she said, kneeling down and bringing a glow to the frosted feet.

“I suppose you can manage some sort of a fit with them.  Here!” Vance tossed over the house-moccasins and woollen wrappings, which the two women, with low laughs and confidential undertones, proceeded to utilize.

“But what in the world were you doing on trail, alone, at this time of night?” Vance asked.  In his heart he was marvelling at the coolness and pluck with which she was carrying off the situation.

“I know beforehand that you will censure me,” she replied, helping Blanche arrange the wet gear over the fire.  “I was at Mrs. Stanton’s; but first, you must know, Miss Mortimer and I are staying at the Pently’s for a week.  Now, to start fresh again.  I intended to leave Mrs. Stanton’s before dark; but her baby got into the kerosene, her husband had gone down to Dawson, and—­well, we weren’t sure of the baby up to half an hour ago.  She wouldn’t hear of me returning alone; but there was nothing to fear; only I had not expected soft ice in such a snap.”

“How’d you fix the kid?” Del asked, intent on keeping the talk going now that it had started.

“Chewing tobacco.”  And when the laughter had subsided, she went on:  “There wasn’t any mustard, and it was the best I could think of.  Besides, Matt McCarthy saved my life with it once, down at Dyea when I had the croup.  But you were singing when I came in,” she suggested.  “Do go on.”

Jake Cornell hawed prodigiously.  “And I got done.”

“Then you, Del.  Sing ‘Flying Cloud’ as you used to coming down the river.”

“Oh, ’e ’as!” said the Virgin.

“Then you sing.  I am sure you do.”

She smiled into the Virgin’s eyes, and that lady delivered herself of a coster ballad with more art than she was aware.  The chill of Frona’s advent was quickly dissipated, and song and toast and merriment went round again.  Nor was Frona above touching lips to the jelly glass in fellowship; and she contributed her quota by singing “Annie Laurie” and “Ben Bolt.”  Also, but privily, she watched the drink saturating the besotted souls of Cornell and the Virgin.  It was an experience, and she was glad of it, though sorry in a way for Corliss, who played the host lamely.

But he had little need of pity.  “Any other woman—­” he said to himself a score of times, looking at Frona and trying to picture numerous women he had known by his mother’s teapot, knocking at the door and coming in as Frona had done.  Then, again, it was only yesterday that it would have hurt him, Blanche’s rubbing her feet; but now he gloried in Frona’s permitting it, and his heart went out in a more kindly 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.