The tall young lady only changed her course a little, and made obliquely for the barrier, but the encounter with that woman affected her more unpleasantly than the elbowing and jostling of the others. She had a distinct vision of Louis Cheviot’s face as he had said “the kind of woman that goes to Nome.” It had been horrible to him that Hildegarde was not daunted. For she hadn’t let him see that she was. And now that woman, with the hard face and the diamond ear-rings!—and Louis too disgusted to want to come and see his old friend off, or even to send her a message of good-by. She began to see how foolish it was to expect to see him here. He had washed his hands of her. And still, in the back of her head, she thought he might come—even built upon it. She looked back. No, he wasn’t in sight; but a tall, grizzled man had given the youngest pioneer a seat on his shoulder. That was nice of the grizzled man. But it was saddening to go on so great a journey without the good-will of so close a friend as— There was something very hard about Louis. He could enjoy himself quite comfortably, since he had washed his hands of her. Her mother—(why was this man in front of her dressed in oilskins?) Yes—washed his hands of her. Her mother had told her as much. Bella and Mrs. Wayne had come up from the country to the Valdivia G. H. Charity Ball. They had stayed at the great new hotel. Bella had worn pink at the ball, and danced constantly with Louis Cheviot. She stayed on for several days, and they drove together every evening. People had begun to talk. Well, it had seemed very possible once. Why not? And here was Hildegarde actually expecting he might have left Bella and come all that way from Valdivia just to wish Hildegarde God-speed on a journey he had loathed the very mention of. Idiocy. Of course he was out driving with Bella this soft, beautiful evening. He would be thinking: “Bella could never do anything so unfeminine as to go to a horrible place like Nome!” Bella and Louis. Why did she, the girl struggling here in the crowd, feel this half-incredulous aching at the thought? Bella and Louis. Natural enough. Even inevitable. The reason that she, Hildegarde, felt like this was that she wasn’t accustomed yet to being alone, and it was so hard to reach the barrier yonder. Jack Galbraith. Would he, too, join them—the sensible stay-at-home folk? Curiously, Jack was grown as dim as last year’s dreams. For weeks she had felt him fading out of the old picture. And in the new he had no place at all. Why was that? Perhaps he was dead. It seemed hardly to matter. Should she ever get to the barrier? Oh, how they pushed and crowded upon her. It made her feel quite angry. Not so much with these poor struggling people. But with Cheviot. If he were here now, instead of driving about with Bella, if those broad shoulders of his were between Hildegarde and— “Oh, please, please, you’re crushing me.” “Then stand back,” said a man angrily. _And he wasn’t even drunk._