“Yes,” his voice came muffled across the stove.  “What is it?”

“Have you the shavings cut?”

“Shavings?” he queried, sleepily.  “What shavings?”

“For the fire in the morning, of course.  So get up and cut them.”

He obeyed without a word; but ere he was done she had ceased to hear him.

The ubiquitous bacon was abroad on the air when she opened her eyes.  Day had broken, and with it the storm.  The wet sun was shining cheerily over the drenched landscape and in at the wide-spread flaps.  Already work had begun, and groups of men were filing past under their packs.  Frona turned over on her side.  Breakfast was cooked.  Her host had just put the bacon and fried potatoes in the oven, and was engaged in propping the door ajar with two sticks of firewood.

“Good-morning,” she greeted.

“And good-morning to you,” he responded, rising to his feet and picking up the water-bucket.  “I don’t hope that you slept well, for I know you did.”

Frona laughed.

“I’m going out after some water,” he vouchsafed.  “And when I return I shall expect you ready for breakfast.”

After breakfast, basking herself in the sun, Frona descried a familiar bunch of men rounding the tail of the glacier in the direction of Crater Lake.  She clapped her hands.

“There comes my outfit, and Del Bishop as shame-faced as can be, I’m sure, at his failure to connect.”  Turning to the man, and at the same time slinging camera and satchel over her shoulder, “So I must say good-by, not forgetting to thank you for your kindness.”

“Oh, not at all, not at all.  Pray don’t mention it.  I’d do the same for any—­”

“Vaudeville artist!”

He looked his reproach, but went on.  “I don’t know your name, nor do I wish to know it.”

“Well, I shall not be so harsh, for I do know your name, Mister Vance Corliss!  I saw it on the shipping tags, of course,” she explained.  “And I want you to come and see me when you get to Dawson.  My name is Frona Welse.  Good-by.”

“Your father is not Jacob Welse?” he called after her as she ran lightly down towards the trail.

She turned her head and nodded.

But Del Bishop was not shamefaced, nor even worried.  “Trust a Welse to land on their feet on a soft spot,” he had consoled himself as he dropped off to sleep the night before.  But he was angry—­“madder ’n hops,” in his own vernacular.

“Good-mornin’,” he saluted.  “And it’s plain by your face you had a comfortable night of it, and no thanks to me.”

“You weren’t worried, were you?” she asked.

“Worried?  About a Welse?  Who?  Me?  Not on your life.  I was too busy tellin’ Crater Lake what I thought of it.  I don’t like the water.  I told you so.  And it’s always playin’ me scurvy—­not that I’m afraid of it, though.”

“Hey, you Pete!” turning to the Indians.  “Hit ’er up!  Got to make Linderman by noon!”