gloom of winter,
with something greater than hope in their hearts. They, too, were
builders. Fear of God and love of land lay deep in their souls, and side
by side with their men-folk they went on in this epic struggle for the
building of a nation at the top of the world.

Many times during this week Alan felt it in his heart to speak of Mary
Standish. But in the end, not even to Carl Lomen did word of her escape
his lips. The passing of each day had made her more intimately a part of
him, and a secret part. He could not tell people about her. He even made
evasions when questioned about his business and experiences at Cordova
and up the coast. Curiously, she seemed nearer to him when he was away
from other men and women. He remembered it had been that way with his
father, who was always happiest when in the deep mountains or the
unending tundras. And so Alan thrilled with an inner gladness when his
business was finished and the day came for him to leave Nome.

Carl Lomen went with him as far as the big herd on Choris Peninsula. For
one hundred miles, up to Shelton, they rode over a narrow-gauge,
four-foot railway on a hand-car drawn by dogs. And it seemed to Alan, at
times, as though Mary Standish were with him, riding in this strange way
through a great wilderness. He could _see_ her. That was the strange
thing which began to possess him. There were moments when her eyes were
shining softly upon him, her lips smiling, her presence so real he might
have spoken to her if Lomen had not been at his side. He did not fight
against these visionings. It pleased him to think of her going with him
into the heart of Alaska, riding the picturesque "pup-mobile," losing
herself in the mountains and in his tundras, with all the wonder and
glory of a new world breaking upon her a little at a time, like the
unfolding of a great mystery. For there was both wonder and glory in
these countless miles running ahead and drifting behind, and the miracle
of northward-sweeping life. The days were long. Night, as Mary Standish
had always known night, was gone. On the twentieth of June there were
twenty hours of day, with a dim and beautiful twilight between the hours
of eleven and one. Sleep was no longer a matter of the rising and
setting of the sun, but was regulated by the hands of the watch. A world
frozen to the core for seven months was bursting open like a
great flower.

From Shelton, Alan and his companion visited the eighty or ninety