own on the bedding.

"Vaudeville artist, I suppose?"

He asked the question seemingly without interest, as though to keep the
conversation going, and, in fact, as if he knew the stereotyped answer
beforehand. But to Frona the question was like a blow in the face.
She remembered Neepoosa's philippic against the white women who were
coming into the land, and realized the falseness of her position and
the way in which he looked upon her.

But he went on before she could speak. "Last night I had two
vaudeville queens, and three the night before. Only there was more
bedding then. It's unfortunate, isn't it, the aptitude they display in
getting lost from their outfits? Yet somehow I have failed to find any
lost outfits so far. And they are all queens, it seems. No
under-studies or minor turns about them,--no, no. And I presume you
are a queen, too?"

The too-ready blood sprayed her cheek, and this made her angrier than
did he; for whereas she was sure of the steady grip she had on herself,
her flushed face betokened a confusion which did not really possess her.

"No," she answered, coolly; "I am not a vaudeville artist."

He tossed several sacks of flour to one side of the stove, without
replying, and made of them the foundation of a bed; and with the
remaining sacks he duplicated the operation on the opposite side of the
stove.

"But you are some kind of an artist, then," he insisted when he had
finished, with an open contempt on the "artist."

"Unfortunately, I am not any kind of an artist at all."

He dropped the blanket he was folding and straightened his back.
Hitherto he had no more than glanced at her; but now he scrutinized her
carefully, every inch of her, from head to heel and back again, the cut
of her garments and the very way she did her hair. And he took his
time about it.

"Oh! I beg pardon," was his verdict, followed by another stare. "Then
you are a very foolish woman dreaming of fortune and shutting your eyes
to the dangers of the pilgrimage. It is only meet that two kinds of
women come into this country. Those who by virtue of wifehood and
daughterhood are respectable, and those who are not respectable.
Vaudeville stars and artists, they call themselves for the sake of
decency; and out of courtesy we countenance it. Yes, yes, I know. But
remember, the women who come over the trail must be one or the other.
There is no middle course, and those who attempt it are bound to fail.
So