“Then you’ll do.  But as I was sayin’, after I lost my outfit I hit back for the coast, bein’ broke, to hustle up another one.  That’s why I’m chargin’ high-pressure rates.  And I hope you don’t feel sore at what I made you pay.  I’m no worse than the rest, miss, sure.  I had to dig up a hundred for this old tub, which ain’t worth ten down in the States.  Same kind of prices everywhere.  Over on the Skaguay Trail horseshoe nails is just as good as a quarter any day.  A man goes up to the bar and calls for a whiskey.  Whiskey’s half a dollar.  Well, he drinks his whiskey, plunks down two horseshoe nails, and it’s O.K.  No kick comin’ on horseshoe nails.  They use ’em to make change.”

“You must be a brave man to venture into the country again after such an experience.  Won’t you tell me your name?  We may meet on the Inside.”

“Who?  Me?  Oh, I’m Del Bishop, pocket-miner; and if ever we run across each other, remember I’d give you the last shirt—­I mean, remember my last bit of grub is yours.”

“Thank you,” she answered with a sweet smile; for she was a woman who loved the things which rose straight from the heart.

He stopped rowing long enough to fish about in the water around his feet for an old cornbeef can.

“You’d better do some bailin’,” he ordered, tossing her the can.  “She’s leakin’ worse since that squeeze.”

Frona smiled mentally, tucked up her skirts, and bent to the work.  At every dip, like great billows heaving along the sky-line, the glacier-fretted mountains rose and fell.  Sometimes she rested her back and watched the teeming beach towards which they were heading, and again, the land-locked arm of the sea in which a score or so of great steamships lay at anchor.  From each of these, to the shore and back again, flowed a steady stream of scows, launches, canoes, and all sorts of smaller craft.  Man, the mighty toiler, reacting upon a hostile environment, she thought, going back in memory to the masters whose wisdom she had shared in lecture-room and midnight study.  She was a ripened child of the age, and fairly understood the physical world and the workings thereof.  And she had a love for the world, and a deep respect.

For some time Del Bishop had only punctuated the silence with splashes from his oars; but a thought struck him.

“You haven’t told me your name,” he suggested, with complacent delicacy.

“My name is Welse,” she answered.  “Frona Welse.”

A great awe manifested itself in his face, and grew to a greater and greater awe.  “You—­are—­Frona—­Welse?” he enunciated slowly.  “Jacob Welse ain’t your old man, is he?”

“Yes; I am Jacob Welse’s daughter, at your service.”

He puckered his lips in a long low whistle of understanding and stopped rowing.  “Just you climb back into the stern and take your feet out of that water,” he commanded.  “And gimme holt that can.”