“I wasn’t before I went to Alaska,” she answered proudly. “Ya—as,” agreed her husband. “Always terrible sickly till she went up there. Ruth’s jest the same.” “Who’s Ruth?” demanded Mrs. Mar. “That’s my niece,” said Mrs. Blumpitty. “You had her along last year?” “Yes, and she’s comin’ again. She wouldn’t miss comin’ fur anything. Ruth’s twenty-five,” Mrs. Blumpitty explained to Miss Mar. “Reel nice girl. Been a nurse. You’ll like Ruth.” It was as if the “reel nice” Ruth finally settled things. “Give Harry your _Congress_ ticket, Hildegarde, and he’ll see about changing it. Even if he can’t, I’ve made up my mind you must go on Mrs. Blumpitty’s ship. Don’t let the grass grow, Harry, we must catch the night train home.” When Harry had ceased to cultivate grass in Jacob Dorn’s parlor, the Blumpittys seemed to think their audience, too, was at an end. They stood close together and muttered embarrassed leave-taking. “Wait till my son gets back,” interrupted Mrs. Mar. “He oughtn’t to be more than twenty minutes. There are one or two things I’d like to know.” The fact did not elude Mrs. Mar that when she had headed off their escape, Mrs. Blumpitty had taken refuge in the chair nearest her husband, and was edging it as close to him as she could conveniently get—for protection, it would appear. And Blumpitty himself, as feebly he resumed his perch, looked more than ever depressed and vague. Mrs. Mar needed no reminder that few husbands and wives are as communicative together as either may be apart. “Hildegarde,” she said, “take Mrs. Blumpitty up to your room and see how much of your outfit’s right. Show her your list and take notes of what she tells you.” Having cleared the deck, Mrs. Mar by a cross fire of questions drew forth a story, no—queer fragments, rather, of the history of the Blumpittys’ fight for existence during sixteen months spent in a tent upon the icy tundra, with a few Esquimau neighbors and no white soul for many a mile. Mrs. Mar forgot to look at the clock, even grew strangely friendly with Blumpitty, in her absorption in so congenial an occupation as drawing out and clarifying an inarticulate, rather muddled male. Finally, “The papers,” quoted Mrs. Mar, “the papers say that all the claims are staked.” Without the smallest emphasis, “I know that ain’t so,” said the man dully. “How do you know?” “I been there.” Mrs. Mar digested this. “I know,” Blumpitty went on, “a place where no white man but me and one other has set foot—rich in gold.” “Where’s that other man?” “Under the tundra ’long o’ the gold.” She tried not to betray her interest. She even succeeded. “And that’s the place you’re going up now to work?” “No, ma’am, I ain’t talked to folks about _that_ place.” Mrs. Mar waited to hear why.