ou say goo'-bye to-day?"

"Lot to do. I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

Her creamy face was suddenly alight, but not with gratitude.

"Oh, yes, all right here," she said haughtily. "I not like much the
Boston men--King George men best." It was so her sore heart abjured her
country. For among the natives of the Klondyke white history stops
where it began when George the Third was King. "I think"--she shot
sideways a shrewd look--"I think I marry a King George man."

And at the prospect her head drooped heavily.

"Then you'll want to wear this at your wedding."

The Boy drew his hand out of his pocket, threw a walrus-string over her
bent head, and when she could see clear again, her Katharine medal was
swinging below her waist, and "the Boston man" was gone.

She stared with blinded eyes out of the window, till suddenly in the
mist one face was clear. The Boy! Standing still down there in the
hurly-burly, hands in pockets, staring at the ship.

Suddenly Sister Winifred, her black veil swirling in the wind. An
orderly from St. Mary's Hospital following with a little trunk. At the
gangway she is stopped by the purser, asked some questions, smiles at
first and shakes her head, and then in dismay clasps her hands, seeming
to plead, while the whistle shrieks.

Muckluck turned and flew down the dark little stair, threaded her way
in and out among the bystanders on the wharf till she reached the
Sister's side. The nun was saying that she not only had no money, but
that a Yukon purser must surely know the Sisters were forbidden to
carry it. He could not doubt but the passage money would be made good
when they got to Holy Cross. But the purser was a new man, and when Mac
and others who knew the Yukon custom expostulated, he hustled them
aside and told Sister Winifred to stand back, the gangway was going up.
It was then the Boy came and spoke to the man, finally drew out some
money and paid the fare. The nun, not recognising him, too bewildered
by this rough passage with the world even to thank the stranger, stood
motionless, grasping Kaviak's hand--two children, you would say--her
long veil blowing, hurrying on before her to that haven in the waste,
the mission at Holy Cross.

Again the Boy was delaying the upward swing of the gangway: the nun's
trunk must come on board. Two men rushed for it while he held down the
gang.

"Mustn't cry," he said to Muckluck. "You'll see Sister Winifred again."

"Not for