True, her mind was dark to deliberate analysis, but she yet possessed her woman’s clarity of vision in such matters.  On the night of the slippers she had measured the bold, open admiration of her three man-friends; and for the first time comparison had suggested itself.  It was only a foot and an ankle, but—­but comparison could not, in the nature of things, cease at that point.  She judged herself by their standards till the divinity of her white sisters was shattered.  After all, they were only women, and why should she not exalt herself to their midst?  In doing these things she learned where she lacked and with the knowledge of her weakness came her strength.  And so mightily did she strive that her three trainers often marveled late into the night over the eternal mystery of woman.

In this way Thanksgiving Night drew near.  At irregular intervals Bettles sent word down from Stuart River regarding the welfare of Young Cal.  The time of their return was approaching.  More than once a casual caller, hearing dance-music and the rhythmic pulse of feet, entered, only to find Harrington scraping away and the other two beating time or arguing noisily over a mooted step.  Madeline was never in evidence, having precipitately fled to the inner room.

On one of these nights Cal Galbraith dropped in.  Encouraging news had just come down from Stuart River, and Madeline had surpassed herself—­not in walk alone, and carriage and grace, but in womanly roguishness.  They had indulged in sharp repartee and she had defended herself brilliantly; and then, yielding to the intoxication of the moment, and of her own power, she had bullied, and mastered, and wheedled, and patronized them with most astonishing success.  And instinctively, involuntarily, they had bowed, not to her beauty, her wisdom, her wit, but to that indefinable something in woman to which man yields yet cannot name.

The room was dizzy with sheer delight as she and Prince whirled through the last dance of the evening.  Harrington was throwing in inconceivable flourishes, while Malemute Kid, utterly abandoned, had seized the broom and was executing mad gyrations on his own account.

At this instant the door shook with a heavy rap-rap, and their quick glances noted the lifting of the latch.  But they had survived similar situations before.  Harrington never broke a note.  Madeline shot through the waiting door to the inner room.  The broom went hurtling under the bunk, and by the time Cal Galbraith and Louis Savoy got their heads in, Malemute Kid and Prince were in each other’s arms, wildly schottisching down the room.

As a rule, Indian women do not make a practice of fainting on provocation, but Madeline came as near to it as she ever had in her life.  For an hour she crouched on the floor, listening to the heavy voices of the men rumbling up and down in mimic thunder.  Like familiar chords of childhood melodies, every intonation, every trick of her husband’s voice swept in upon her, fluttering her heart and weakening her knees till she lay half-fainting against the door.  It was well she could neither see nor hear when he took his departure.