floor bed, and went
back to the window.

Softly fingering the strings she picked out the notes of the Indian
lament that kept repeating itself in her mind. She was possessed by a
desire to express in music the mystery of the wilderness afterglow, the
wild, illusive feeling that had touched her. She longed to use her bow
freely on the strings of her violin until, at one with the instrument,
she could lose herself in the ecstasy of creation. . . . She reached
for the bow that lay on the floor beside her. Perhaps, if she played
very softly she might disturb no one----

Up from the courtyard, as if a door had been suddenly opened, came
startling sounds--short yells, Indian war-whoops and the maudlin
singing of white men. The mournful, prolonged howl of a dog drifted in
from somewhere. Down in the direction of the Indian village half a
dozen shots were fired in rapid succession. Jean's heart beat oddly.
Katleean was beginning to celebrate the Potlatch in the singular way of
the male, who, since time immemorial has made a holiday an occasion for
a carousal. The girl sighed, and placed her violin gently on the
floor. With her chin in her hands she took her former position at the
window and listened.

Somewhere near the store a trio began. The blended harmony of men's
voices as they sang in the dusk had in it a peculiar stir. Jean found
herself, head up and shoulders swaying, responding to the lilt and
swing of the air:

"Hear the rattle of our windlass
As the anchor comes away;
For we're bound for Old Point Barrow
And we make our start today."

Rollicking, devil-may-care, the whaling song went on through long
verses. Many of the words she could not distinguish, but throughout
the singing she was aware of a feeling that these singers were men who
had cast aside the restraint of conventions, even in a way,
responsibility for conduct, and were exulting in their freedom.

Thinking the song finished she turned away at last, but the movement
was arrested by the sound of a lone baritone taking up the chorus
again. She leaned over the sill to catch the words, for in the voice
she recognized her companion of the drift logs.

"Up into the Polar Seas
Where the greasy whalers be,
There's a strip of open water
Leading north to eighty-three,
Where the frisky seal and walrus
On the ice floes bask and roll.
And the sun comes up at midnight
From an ice-pack round the Pole."

Apprehension