ancestors. I have a firm belafe that they wance existed.
Ye may find nuggets in the Klondike, but niver good whiskey. 'Tis
likewise me intintion to have wan drink iv the rate stuff before I die.
Afther that 'tis me sworn resolve to return to the superveeshion iv me
Klondike properties. Indade, and I'm an Eldorado king; an' if ye'll be
wantin' the lind iv a tidy bit, it's meself that'll loan it ye."

"The same old, old Matt, who never grows old," Frona laughed.

"An' it's yerself is the thrue Welse, for all yer prize-fighter's
muscles an' yer philosopher's brains. But let's wander inside on the
heels of Louis an' Swiftwater. Andy's still tindin' store, I'm told,
an' we'll see if I still linger in the pages iv his mimory."

"And I, also." Frona seized him by the hand. It was a bad habit she
had of seizing the hands of those she loved. "It's ten years since I
went away."

The Irishman forged his way through the crowd like a pile-driver, and
Frona followed easily in the lee of his bulk. The tenderfeet watched
them reverently, for to them they were as Northland divinities. The
buzz of conversation rose again.

"Who's the girl?" somebody asked. And just as Frona passed inside the
door she caught the opening of the answer: "Jacob Welse's daughter.
Never heard of Jacob Welse? Where have you been keeping yourself?"

CHAPTER II

She came out of the wood of glistening birch, and with the first fires
of the sun blazoning her unbound hair raced lightly across the
dew-dripping meadow. The earth was fat with excessive moisture and
soft to her feet, while the dank vegetation slapped against her knees
and cast off flashing sprays of liquid diamonds. The flush of the
morning was in her cheek, and its fire in her eyes, and she was aglow
with youth and love. For she had nursed at the breast of nature,--in
forfeit of a mother,--and she loved the old trees and the creeping
green things with a passionate love; and the dim murmur of growing life
was a gladness to her ears, and the damp earth-smells were sweet to her
nostrils.

Where the upper-reach of the meadow vanished in a dark and narrow
forest aisle, amid clean-stemmed dandelions and color-bursting
buttercups, she came upon a bunch of great Alaskan violets. Throwing
herself at full length, she buried her face in the fragrant coolness,
and with her hands drew the purple heads in circling splendor about her
own. And she was not ashamed. She had wandered away