"Well, thin, the fore part iv last night, an' much good may it do ye." "And danced with her?" "A rollickin' Virginia reel, an' not sayin' a word iv a quadrille or so. Tis at square dances I excel meself." Frona walked on in a simulated brown study, no sound going up from the twain save the complaint of the snow from under their moccasins. "Well, thin?" he questioned, uneasily. "An' what iv it?" he insisted after another silence. "Oh, nothing," she answered. "I was just wondering which was the muckiest, Mr. St. Vincent or you--or myself, with whom you have both been cheek by jowl." Now, McCarthy was unversed in the virtues of social wisdom, and, though he felt somehow the error of her position, he could not put it into definite thought; so he steered wisely, if weakly, out of danger. "It's gettin' mad ye are with yer old Matt," he insinuated, "who has yer own good at heart, an' because iv it makes a fool iv himself." "No, I'm not." "But ye are." "There!" leaning swiftly to him and kissing him. "How could I remember the Dyea days and be angry?" "Ah, Frona darlin', well may ye say it. I'm the dust iv the dirt under yer feet, an' ye may walk on me--anything save get mad. I cud die for ye, swing for ye, to make ye happy. I cud kill the man that gave ye sorrow, were it but a thimbleful, an' go plump into hell with a smile on me face an' joy in me heart." They had halted before her door, and she pressed his arm gratefully. "I am not angry, Matt. But with the exception of my father you are the only person I would have permitted to talk to me about this--this affair in the way you have. And though I like you, Matt, love you better than ever, I shall nevertheless be very angry if you mention it again. You have no right. It is something that concerns me alone. And it is wrong of you--" "To prevint ye walkin' blind into danger?" "If you wish to put it that way, yes." He growled deep down in his throat. "What is it you are saying?" she asked. "That ye may shut me mouth, but that ye can't bind me arm." "But you mustn't, Matt, dear, you mustn't." Again he answered with a subterranean murmur. "And I want you to promise me, now, that you will not interfere in my life that way, by word or deed." "I'll not promise." "But you must." "I'll not. Further, it's gettin' cold on the stoop, an' ye'll be frostin' yer toes, the pink little toes I fished splinters out iv at Dyea. So it's in with ye, Frona girl, an' good-night." He thrust her inside and departed. When he reached the corner he stopped suddenly and regarded his shadow on the snow. "Matt McCarthy, yer a damned fool! Who iver heard iv a Welse not knowin' their own mind? As though ye'd niver had dalin's with the stiff-necked breed, ye calamitous son iv misfortune!" Then he went his way, still growling deeply, and at every growl the curious wolf-dog at his heels bristled and bared its fangs. CHAPTER XVII "Tired?"