“Then come a little bit farther, into the cabin and get something to eat,” he said genially, ignoring or missing the feminine suggestion of appeal in her voice.  “And you must be tired too.  Which way are you travelling?  Up?  Then you wintered in Dawson, or came in on the last ice.  Your camp?” He glanced at the voyageurs circled about the fire in the open, and held back the door for her to enter.

“I came up on the ice from Circle City last winter,” he continued, “and settled down here for a while.  Am prospecting some on Henderson Creek, and if that fails, have been thinking of trying my hand this fall up the Stuart River.”

“You aren’t changed much, are you?” she asked irrelevantly, striving to throw the conversation upon a more personal basis.

“A little less flesh, perhaps, and a little more muscle.  How did you mean?”

But she shrugged her shoulders and peered I through the dim light at the Indian girl, who had lighted the fire and was frying great chunks of moose meat, alternated with thin ribbons of bacon.

“Did you stop in Dawson long?” The man was whittling a stave of birchwood into a rude axe-handle, and asked the question without raising his head.

“Oh, a few days,” she answered, following the girl with her eyes, and hardly hearing.  “What were you saying?  In Dawson?  A month, in fact, and glad to get away.  The arctic male is elemental, you know, and somewhat strenuous in his feelings.”

“Bound to be when he gets right down to the soil.  He leaves convention with the spring bed at borne.  But you were wise in your choice of time for leaving.  You’ll be out of the country before mosquito season, which is a blessing your lack of experience will not permit you to appreciate.”

“I suppose not.  But tell me about yourself, about your life.  What kind of neighbors have you?  Or have you any?”

While she queried she watched the girl grinding coffee in the corner of a flower sack upon the hearthstone.  With a steadiness and skill which predicated nerves as primitive as the method, she crushed the imprisoned berries with a heavy fragment of quartz.  David Payne noted his visitor’s gaze, and the shadow of a smile drifted over his lips.

“I did have some,” he replied.  “Missourian chaps, and a couple of Cornishmen, but they went down to Eldorado to work at wages for a grubstake.”

Mrs. Sayther cast a look of speculative regard upon the girl.  “But of course there are plenty of Indians about?”

“Every mother’s son of them down to Dawson long ago.  Not a native in the whole country, barring Winapie here, and she’s a Koyokuk lass,—­comes from a thousand miles or so down the river.”

Mrs. Sayther felt suddenly faint; and though the smile of interest in no wise waned, the face of the man seemed to draw away to a telescopic distance, and the tiered logs of the cabin to whirl drunkenly about.  But she was bidden draw up to the table, and during the meal discovered time and space in which to find herself.  She talked little, and that principally about the land and weather, while the man wandered off into a long description of the difference between the shallow summer diggings of the Lower Country and the deep winter diggings of the Upper Country.