Frona turned over on her side. Breakfast was cooked. Her host
had just put the bacon and fried potatoes in the oven, and was engaged
in propping the door ajar with two sticks of firewood.
"Good-morning," she greeted.
"And good-morning to you," he responded, rising to his feet and picking
up the water-bucket. "I don't hope that you slept well, for I know you
did."
Frona laughed.
"I'm going out after some water," he vouchsafed. "And when I return I
shall expect you ready for breakfast."
After breakfast, basking herself in the sun, Frona descried a familiar
bunch of men rounding the tail of the glacier in the direction of
Crater Lake. She clapped her hands.
"There comes my outfit, and Del Bishop as shame-faced as can be, I'm
sure, at his failure to connect." Turning to the man, and at the same
time slinging camera and satchel over her shoulder, "So I must say
good-by, not forgetting to thank you for your kindness."
"Oh, not at all, not at all. Pray don't mention it. I'd do the same
for any--"
"Vaudeville artist!"
He looked his reproach, but went on. "I don't know your name, nor do I
wish to know it."
"Well, I shall not be so harsh, for I do know your name, MISTER VANCE
CORLISS! I saw it on the shipping tags, of course," she explained.
"And I want you to come and see me when you get to Dawson. My name is
Frona Welse.
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