A man was running
with the team, and he waved his hand to the two women.
"Vance!" Frona exclaimed, as he threw his lead-dogs in the snow and
brought the sled to a halt. "What are you doing over here? Is the
syndicate bent upon cornering the firewood also?"
"No. We're not so bad as that." His face was full of smiling
happiness at the meeting as he shook hands with her. "But Carthey is
leaving me,--going prospecting somewhere around the North Pole, I
believe,--and I came across to look up Del Bishop, if he'll serve."
He turned his head to glance expectantly at her companion, and she saw
the smile go out of his face and anger come in. Frona was helplessly
aware that she had no grip over the situation, and, though a rebellion
at the cruelty and injustice of it was smouldering somewhere deep down,
she could only watch the swift culmination of the little tragedy. The
woman met his gaze with a half-shrinking, as from an impending blow,
and with a softness of expression which entreated pity. But he
regarded her long and coldly, then deliberately turned his back. As he
did this, Frona noted her face go tired and gray, and the hardness and
recklessness of her laughter were there painted in harsh tones, and a
bitter devil rose up and lurked in her eyes. It was evident that the
same bitter devil rushed hotly to her tongue.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113