ad fathered her with his attentions, watching closely with the wisdom
of years. And more than once he had observed that questing, defiant
poise of her head with which she was regarding the cabin windows now.

She had told him she was twenty-three and on her way to meet relatives
in Nome. She had named certain people. And he had believed her. It was
impossible not to believe her, and he admired her pluck in breaking all
official regulations in coming aboard.

In many ways she was companionable and sweet. Yet out of his experience,
he gathered the fact that she was under a tension. He knew that in some
way she was making a fight, but, influenced by the wisdom of three and
sixty years, he did not let her know he had guessed the truth.

He watched her closely now, without seeming to do so. She was very
pretty in a quiet and unusual way. There was something irresistibly
attractive about her, appealing to old memories which were painted
clearly in his heart. She was girlishly slim. He had observed that her
eyes were beautifully clear and gray in the sunlight, and her
exquisitely smooth dark hair, neatly coiled and luxuriant crown of
beauty, reminded him of puritanism in its simplicity. At times he
doubted that she was twenty-three. If she had said nineteen or twenty he
would have been better satisfied. She puzzled him and roused speculation
in him. But it was a part of his business to see many things which
others might not see--and hold his tongue.

"We are not quite alone," she was saying. "There are others," and she
made a little gesture toward two figures farther up the rail.

"Old Donald Hardwick, of Skagway," he said. "And the other is Alan
Holt."

"Oh, yes."

She was facing the mountains again, her eyes shining in the light of the
moon. Gently her hand touched the old captain's arm. "Listen," she
whispered.

"Another berg breaking away from Old Thunder. We are very near the
shore, and there are glaciers all the way up."

"And that other sound, like low wind--on a night so still and calm! What
is it?"

"You always hear that when very close to the big mountains, Miss
Standish. It is made by the water of a thousand streams and rivulets
rushing down to the sea. Wherever there is melting snow in the
mountains, you hear that song."

"And this man, Alan Holt," she reminded him. "He is a part of these
things?"

"Possibly more than any other man, Miss Standish. He was born in Alaska
before Nome or Fairbanks or Da