To Sitka Charley, who took her
once past the Hills of Silence, belongs the glory of having memorialized
her clear-searching eyes, her clear-ringing voice, and her utter
downright frankness. Her lips had a way of stiffening to command, and
she was used to coming straight to the point. Having taken Floyd
Vanderlip's measurement, she did not dare this with him; but she was not
afraid to go down into the town to Freda. And down she went, in the
bright light of day, to the house of the dancer. She was above silly
tongues, as was her husband, the captain. She wished to see this woman
and to speak with her, nor was she aware of any reason why she should
not. So she stood in the snow at the Greek girl's door, with the frost
at sixty below, and parleyed with the waiting-maid for a full five
minutes. She had also the pleasure of being turned away from that door,
and of going back up the hill, wroth at heart for the indignity which had
been put upon her. "Who was this woman that she should refuse to see
her?" she asked herself. One would think it the other way around, and
she herself but a dancing girl denied at the door of the wife of a
captain. As it was, she knew, had Freda come up the hill to her,--no
matter what the errand,--she would have made her welcome at her fire, and
they would have sat there as two women, and talked, merely as two women.
She had overstepped convention and lowered herself, but she had thought
it different with the women down in the town. And she was ashamed that
she had laid herself open to such dishonor, and her thoughts of Freda
were unkind.

Not that Freda deserved this. Mrs. Eppingwell had descended to meet her
who was without caste, while she, strong in the traditions of her own
earlier status, had not permitted it. She could worship such a woman,
and she would have asked no greater joy than to have had her into the
cabin and sat with her, just sat with her, for an hour. But her respect
for Mrs. Eppingwell, and her respect for herself, who was beyond respect,
had prevented her doing that which she most desired. Though not quite
recovered from the recent visit of Mrs. McFee, the wife of the minister,
who had descended upon her in a whirlwind of exhortation and brimstone,
she could not imagine what had prompted the present visit. She was not
aware of any particular wrong she had done, and surely this woman who
waited at the door was not concerned with the welfare of her soul. Why
ha