kaguay 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."

"Am I not