“Shoot!” screamed Helen.  “Why don’t you shoot?” The little gun spoke, and the dog spun around, snarling and yelping.  The woman fired several times more before it lay still, and then remarked, calmly, as she “broke” the weapon and ejected the shells: 

“The calibre is too small to be good for much.”

Helen sank down upon the steps.

“How well you shoot!” she gasped.  Her eyes were on the gray bundle whose death agonies had thrust it almost to her feet.  The men had run up and were talking excitedly, but after a word with them the woman turned to Helen.

“You must come in for a moment and recover yourself,” she said, and led her inside.

It was a cosey room in which the girl found herself—­more than that—­luxurious.  There was a piano with scattered music, and many of the pretty, feminine things that Helen had not seen since leaving home.  The hostess had stepped behind some curtains for an instant and was talking to her from the next room.

“That is the third mad dog I have seen this month.  Hydrophobia is becoming a habit in this neighborhood.”  She returned, bearing a tiny silver tray with decanter and glasses.

“You’re all unstrung, but this brandy will help you—­if you don’t object to a swallow of it.  Then come right in here and lie down for a moment and you’ll be all right.”  She spoke with such genuine kindness and sympathy that Helen flashed a grateful glance at her.  She was tall, slender, and with a peculiar undulating suggestion in her movements, as though she had been bred to the clinging folds of silken garments.  Helen watched the charm of her smile, the friendly solicitude of her expression, and felt her heart warm towards this one kind woman in Nome.

“You’re very good,” she answered; “but I’m all right now.  I was badly frightened.  It was wonderful, your saving me.”  She followed the other’s graceful motion as she placed her burden on the table, and in doing so gazed squarely at a photograph of Roy Glenister.

“Oh—!” Helen exclaimed, then paused as it flashed over her who this girl was.  She looked at her quickly.  Yes, probably men would consider the woman beautiful, with that smile.  The revelation came with a shock, and she arose, trying to mask her confusion.

“Thank you so much for your kindness.  I’m quite myself now and I must go.”

Her change of face could not escape the quick perceptions of one schooled by experience in the slights of her sex.  Times without number Cherry Malotte had marked that subtle, scornful change in other women, and reviled herself for heeding it.  But in some way this girl’s manner hurt her worst of all.  She betrayed no sign, however, save a widening of the eyes and a certain fixity of smile as she answered: 

“I wish you would stay until you are rested, Miss—­” She paused with out-stretched hand.

“Chester.  My name is Helen Chester.  I’m Judge Stillman’s niece,” hurried the other, in embarrassment.