The steamer _President_, which had taken Mar north, brought on her return trip a brief letter from him, saying merely that the journey was safely accomplished as far as St. Michaels. His family knew they would probably not hear again till the following summer. Life was easier when Bella was there. To her one might say, “Will he come back by the first boat in June, or shall we only have letters, do you think?” And say it in one form or another so often that, but for reasons unavowed, the speculation would have wearied friendship. But Bella was full of sympathy and tonic suggestion, always prepared to pore over northern maps, always ready to discuss probable conditions “up there.” What a friend was Bella! “I’ve _talked_ of a standard,” Hildegarde thought humbly, “but she lives up to it—in these days.” It was a shame ever to remember the lapses long ago. And how intelligent she was! How curiously well informed! But Bella was always surprising you. “I keep thinking about him in the night. I lie awake wondering if he’s cold,” Hildegarde confessed, and Bella, why, to look at her face you’d think she knew all about that lying awake and wondering—did the same herself. “Father does so love a fire. Don’t you remember when all of us would be baking he used to draw closer to the hearth?” “That was only because he lived so much indoors. He’ll be _quite_ warm in that beautiful furry sleeping-bag. He’ll probably sleep better than he’s done since he was a child. They all do.” “Who do?” “Oh—a—people who—go to the Klondike.” Another time, “I am haunted by the certainty that he didn’t take enough provisions. Trenn says that in intense cold people eat a great deal more than—” “That’s true,” said Bella sagely, “but it’ll be all right. People are very good to one another in such out-of-the-way places. They always share with anybody who runs short.” “How do you know?” “Well, that’s what the accounts all say.” “What accounts?” “Oh, in the—the papers.” “I never see any such accounts. It’s all horrors—freezing and starving to death. Besides, father will be the one to do the sharing and then have to go without. Oh, _why_ did I help him to—” “Don’t be absurd,” Bella said, almost angrily. “In any case _he’s_ not gone beyond the reach of supply depots.” Neither met the other’s eye. “But suppose his money gives out—it will give out if it’s true they charge two dollars for a potato. He never could keep any money in his pockets. Oh, it’s all very well for you, _your_ father isn’t sitting on an iceberg starving to death.” A queer look came into Bella’s little face. It was there, now and then, and gone like a ghost, leaving a troubled tenderness behind. “It’s not as if he were near a settlement, as the Klondikers are to Dawson City,” Hildegarde went on, yearning for reassurance. “The place father was going to is quite uninhabited, except by a few Esquimaux. Often I can hardly eat for thinking—thinking”—her voice caught—“maybe he is hungry.”