ng through the room.
"I'd Leave my Happy Home for You, ou--ou," she was singing still,
weaving and swaying now from side to side as if about to fall. Her
companion approached and attempted to place his arm about her shoulders,
but she gave him a playful push which sent him sprawling, at which she
shouted in great glee, dropping her drapery and flinging her lovely arms
above her head. How the diamonds sparkled on her little hands I How the
men in the bar-room clapped, swearing she was a good one, and must have
another drink. Someone gave an order, and the bartender handed out a
small tray upon which stood slender-necked amber-colored glasses filled
to the brim.

As the girl quickly tossed off the liquor, I groaned aloud, awaked from
my trance, and fled to my room, where I bolted the door, and fell upon
my knees. God forgive her! What a sight! I wanted to rush into the
bar-room, seize the young girl, and lead her away from the place and her
companions, but I could not. I had barely enough room for myself. I had
little money. What could I do for her? Absolutely nothing. If I went in
and attempted to talk with her it would do no good, for she was drunk,
and a drunken person cannot reason. The men would jeer at me, and I
might be ejected from the place.

Finally I went to bed. At midnight the singing and shouting ceased, the
people dispersed, the bartender put out the lights, and locked the
doors.

For the first time since reaching Nome, my pillow was wet with tears,
and I prayed for gold with which to help lift these, my sisters, from
their awful degradation.

It was well towards midnight, and I had been asleep for some time. My
subjective mind, ever on the alert as usual, and ready to share
enjoyment as well as pain with my objective senses, began gradually to
inform me that there was music in the air. Softly and sweetly, like
rippling summer waters over mossy stones, the notes floated upward to my
ears. The hands of an artist lay upon the keyboard of the instrument in
the room beneath.

I listened drowsily.

With the singing of brooks, I heard the twitter of little birds, the
rustle of leaves on the trees, and saw the maiden-hair nodding in the
glen. I was a little child far away in the Badger State. Again I was
rambling through green fields, and plucking the pretty wild flowers. How
sweet and tender the blue skies above! How gentle the far-away voice of
my mother as she called me!

They were singing softly now,