“You see, it is impossible,” he groaned, thrusting the fair-haired woman gently from him.  “It is impossible,” he repeated.  “It is impossible.”

“I am not a girl, Dave, with a girl’s illusions,” she said softly, though not daring to come back to him.  “It is as a woman that I understand.  Men are men.  A common custom of the country.  I am not shocked.  I divined it from the first.  But—­ah!—­it is only a marriage of the country—­not a real marriage?”

“We do not ask such questions in Alaska,” he interposed feebly.

“I know, but—­”

“Well, then, it is only a marriage of the country—­nothing else.”

“And there are no children?”

“No.”

“Nor—­”

“No, no; nothing—­but it is impossible.”

“But it is not.”  She was at his side again, her hand touching lightly, caressingly, the sunburned back of his.  “I know the custom of the land too well.  Men do it every day.  They do not care to remain here, shut out from the world, for all their days; so they give an order on the P. C. C. Company for a year’s provisions, some money in hand, and the girl is content.  By the end of that time, a man—­” She shrugged her shoulders.  “And so with the girl here.  We will give her an order upon the company, not for a year, but for life.  What was she when you found her?  A raw, meat-eating savage; fish in summer, moose in winter, feasting in plenty, starving in famine.  But for you that is what she would have remained.  For your coming she was happier; for your going, surely, with a life of comparative splendor assured, she will be happier than if you had never been.”

“No, no,” he protested.  “It is not right.”

“Come, Dave, you must see.  She is not your kind.  There is no race affinity.  She is an aborigine, sprung from the soil, yet close to the soil, and impossible to lift from the soil.  Born savage, savage she will die.  But we—­you and I—­the dominant, evolved race—­the salt of the earth and the masters thereof!  We are made for each other.  The supreme call is of kind, and we are of kind.  Reason and feeling dictate it.  Your very instinct demands it.  That you cannot deny.  You cannot escape the generations behind you.  Yours is an ancestry which has survived for a thousand centuries, and for a hundred thousand centuries, and your line must not stop here.  It cannot.  Your ancestry will not permit it.  Instinct is stronger than the will.  The race is mightier than you.  Come, Dave, let us go.  We are young yet, and life is good.  Come.”

Winapie, passing out of the cabin to feed the dogs, caught his attention and caused him to shake his head and weakly to reiterate.  But the woman’s hand slipped about his neck, and her cheek pressed to his.  His bleak life rose up and smote him,—­the vain struggle with pitiless forces; the dreary years of frost and famine; the harsh and jarring contact with elemental life; the aching void which mere animal existence could not fill.  And there, seduction by his side, whispering of brighter, warmer lands, of music, light, and joy, called the old times back again.  He visioned it unconsciously.  Faces rushed in upon him; glimpses of forgotten scenes, memories of merry hours; strains of song and trills of laughter—­