thize with him, then becoming conscious of what she was doing and
bursting into laughter.

"But you couldn't ford the river in the dark." He frowned at her
levity. "And there are no camps between."

"Are you afraid?" she asked with just the shadow of a sneer.

"Not for myself."

"Well, then, I think I'll go to bed."

"I might sit up and keep the fire going," he suggested after a pause.

"Fiddlesticks!" she cried. "As though your foolish little code were
saved in the least! We are not in civilization. This is the trail to
the Pole. Go to bed."

He elevated his shoulders in token of surrender. "Agreed. What shall
I do then?"

"Help me make my bed, of course. Sacks laid crosswise! Thank you,
sir, but I have bones and muscles that rebel. Here-- Pull them
around this way."

Under her direction he laid the sacks lengthwise in a double row. This
left an uncomfortable hollow with lumpy sack-corners down the middle;
but she smote them flat with the side of the axe, and in the same
manner lessened the slope to the walls of the hollow. Then she made a
triple longitudinal fold in a blanket and spread it along the bottom of
the long depression.

"Hum!" he soliloquized. "Now I see why I sleep so badly. Here goes!"
And he speedily flung his own sacks into shape.

"It is plain you are unused to the trail," she informed him, spreading
the topmost blanket and sitting down.

"Perhaps so," he made answer. "But what do you know about this trail
life?" he growled a little later.

"Enough to conform," she rejoined equivocally, pulling out the dried
wood from the oven and replacing it with wet.

"Listen to it! How it storms!" he exclaimed. "It's growing worse, if
worse be possible."

The tent reeled under the blows of the wind, the canvas booming
hollowly at every shock, while the sleet and rain rattled overhead like
skirmish-fire grown into a battle. In the lulls they could hear the
water streaming off at the side-walls with the noise of small
cataracts. He reached up curiously and touched the wet roof. A burst
of water followed instantly at the point of contact and coursed down
upon the grub-box.

"You mustn't do that!" Frona cried, springing to her feet. She put her
finger on the spot, and, pressing tightly against the canvas, ran it
down to the side-wall. The leak at once stopped. "You mustn't do it,
you know," she reproved.

"Jove!" was his reply. "And you came through from Dyea to-day! A