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! Aren't you stiff?" "Quite a bit," she confessed, candidly, "and sleepy." "Good-night," she called to him several minutes later, stretching her body luxuriously in the warm blankets. And a quarter of an hour after that, "Oh, I say! Are you awake?" "Yes," his voice came muffled across the stove. "What is it?" "Have you the shavings cut?" "Shavings?" he queried, sleepily. "What shavings?" "For the fire in the morning, of course. So get up and cut them." He obeyed without a word; but ere he was done she had ceased to hear him. The ubiquitous bacon was abroad on the air when she opened her eyes. Day had broken, and with it the storm. The wet sun was shining cheerily over the drenched landscape and in at the wide-spread flaps. Already work had begun, and groups of men were filing past under their packs. Frona turned over on her side. Breakfast was cooked. Her host had just put the bacon and fried potatoes in the oven, and was engaged in propping the door ajar with two sticks of firewood. "Good-morning," she greeted. "And good-morning to you," he responded, rising to his feet and picking up the water-bucket. "I don't hope that you slept well, for I know you did." Frona laughed. "I'm going out after some water," he vouchsafed. "And when I return I shall expect you ready for breakfast." After breakfast, basking herself in the sun, Frona descried a familiar bunch of men rounding the tail of the glacier in the direction of Crater Lake. She clapped her hands. "There comes my outfit, and Del Bishop as shame-faced as can be, I'm sure, at his failure to connect." Turning to the man, and at the same time slinging camera and satchel over her shoulder, "So I must say good-by, not forgetting to thank you for your kindness." "Oh, not at all, not at all. Pray don't mention it. I'd do the same for any--" "Vaudeville artist!" He looked his reproach, but went on. "I don't know your name, nor do I wish to know it." "Well, I shall not be so harsh, for I do know your name, MISTER VANCE CORLISS! I saw it on the shipping tags, of course," she explained. "And I want you to come and see me when you get to Dawson. My name is Frona Welse. Good-by."