ed, "who has
yer own good at heart, an' because iv it makes a fool iv himself."

"No, I'm not."

"But ye are."

"There!" leaning swiftly to him and kissing him. "How could I remember
the Dyea days and be angry?"

"Ah, Frona darlin', well may ye say it. I'm the dust iv the dirt under
yer feet, an' ye may walk on me--anything save get mad. I cud die for
ye, swing for ye, to make ye happy. I cud kill the man that gave ye
sorrow, were it but a thimbleful, an' go plump into hell with a smile
on me face an' joy in me heart."

They had halted before her door, and she pressed his arm gratefully.
"I am not angry, Matt. But with the exception of my father you are the
only person I would have permitted to talk to me about this--this
affair in the way you have. And though I like you, Matt, love you
better than ever, I shall nevertheless be very angry if you mention it
again. You have no right. It is something that concerns me alone.
And it is wrong of you--"

"To prevint ye walkin' blind into danger?"

"If you wish to put it that way, yes."

He growled deep down in his throat.

"What is it you are saying?" she asked.

"That ye may shut me mouth, but that ye can't bind me arm."

"But you mustn't, Matt, dear, you mustn't."

Again he answered with a subterranean murmur.

"And I want you to promise me, now, that you will not interfere in my
life that way, by word or deed."

"I'll not promise."

"But you must."

"I'll not. Further, it's gettin' cold on the stoop, an' ye'll be
frostin' yer toes, the pink little toes I fished splinters out iv at
Dyea. So it's in with ye, Frona girl, an' good-night."

He thrust her inside and departed. When he reached the corner he
stopped suddenly and regarded his shadow on the snow. "Matt McCarthy,
yer a damned fool! Who iver heard iv a Welse not knowin' their own
mind? As though ye'd niver had dalin's with the stiff-necked breed, ye
calamitous son iv misfortune!"

Then he went his way, still growling deeply, and at every growl the
curious wolf-dog at his heels bristled and bared its fangs.

CHAPTER XVII

"Tired?"

Jacob Welse put both hands on Frona's shoulders, and his eyes spoke the
love his stiff tongue could not compass. The tree and the excitement
and the pleasure were over with, a score or so of children had gone
home frostily happy across the snow, the last guest had departed, and
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were blending into one.

She retu