have its painful periods, and while Corliss's
general change went on smoothly, in the particular case of Frona it was
different. She had a code of her own, quite unlike that of the
community, and perhaps believed woman might do things at which even the
saloon-inhabiting males would be shocked. And because of this, she and
Corliss had their first disagreeable disagreement.

Frona loved to run with the dogs through the biting frost, cheeks
tingling, blood bounding, body thrust forward, and limbs rising and
falling ceaselessly to the pace. And one November day, with the first
cold snap on and the spirit thermometer frigidly marking sixty-five
below, she got out the sled, harnessed her team of huskies, and flew
down the river trail. As soon as she cleared the town she was off and
running. And in such manner, running and riding by turns, she swept
through the Indian village below the bluff's, made an eight-mile circle
up Moosehide Creek and back, crossed the river on the ice, and several
hours later came flying up the west bank of the Yukon opposite the
town. She was aiming to tap and return by the trail for the wood-sleds
which crossed thereabout, but a mile away from it she ran into the soft
snow and brought the winded dogs to a walk.

Along the rim of the river and under the frown of the overhanging
cliffs, she directed the path she was breaking. Here and there she
made detours to avoid the out-jutting talus, and at other times
followed the ice in against the precipitous walls and hugged them
closely around the abrupt bends. And so, at the head of her huskies,
she came suddenly upon a woman sitting in the snow and gazing across
the river at smoke-canopied Dawson. She had been crying, and this was
sufficient to prevent Frona's scrutiny from wandering farther. A tear,
turned to a globule of ice, rested on her cheek, and her eyes were dim
and moist; there was an-expression of hopeless, fathomless woe.

"Oh!" Frona cried, stopping the dogs and coming up to her. "You are
hurt? Can I help you?" she queried, though the stranger shook her
head. "But you mustn't sit there. It is nearly seventy below, and
you'll freeze in a few minutes. Your cheeks are bitten already." She
rubbed the afflicted parts vigorously with a mitten of snow, and then
looked down on the warm returning glow.

"I beg pardon." The woman rose somewhat stiffly to her feet. "And I
thank you, but I am perfectly warm, you see" (settling the fur