She was aiming to tap and return by the trail for the wood-sleds
which crossed thereabout, but a mile away from it she ran into the soft
snow and brought the winded dogs to a walk.
Along the rim of the river and under the frown of the overhanging
cliffs, she directed the path she was breaking. Here and there she
made detours to avoid the out-jutting talus, and at other times
followed the ice in against the precipitous walls and hugged them
closely around the abrupt bends. And so, at the head of her huskies,
she came suddenly upon a woman sitting in the snow and gazing across
the river at smoke-canopied Dawson. She had been crying, and this was
sufficient to prevent Frona's scrutiny from wandering farther. A tear,
turned to a globule of ice, rested on her cheek, and her eyes were dim
and moist; there was an-expression of hopeless, fathomless woe.
"Oh!" Frona cried, stopping the dogs and coming up to her. "You are
hurt? Can I help you?" she queried, though the stranger shook her
head. "But you mustn't sit there. It is nearly seventy below, and
you'll freeze in a few minutes. Your cheeks are bitten already." She
rubbed the afflicted parts vigorously with a mitten of snow, and then
looked down on the warm returning glow.
"I beg pardon." The woman rose somewhat stiffly to her feet. "And I
thank you, but I am perfectly warm, you see" (settling the fur cape
more closely about her with a snuggling movement), "and I had just sat
down for the moment.
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