“No, I think it’s your childish chin and your air of believing everything. But, anyhow, my thirty-two counts double.” Then, as if again to turn the conversation away from herself, “You’re an infant, but rather a wise infant, after all,” she added, relenting a little. “Only what takes you to Nome?” Hildegarde told her. “And what are you going for?” “Money.” “Not beach gold,” said the girl smiling. “I’ve been sent for. I shall be bookkeeper to one of the large companies.” “Oh-h.” Hildegarde’s big eyes were so obviously uncongratulatory that Mrs. Locke said firmly, “It’s work I’m used to.” “But—up there, won’t it be very rough and difficult for—for any one like you—all alone?” “They pay three times what I’ve been getting. I’m very lucky to have the offer, at least as I count luck now. I used to think—to have ambitions.” “I don’t wonder,” said Hildegarde, betraying a flattering confidence in the other’s powers. “I know my measure now. I’m a failure.” And still there was no weakness, no repining in her tone. Level and courageous, but without comfort, wholly without anticipation. “What shall you do with the money you make?” “Buy freedom.” Was she thinking of divorce? Apparently not, for she went on, “No woman’s free who hasn’t enough to live on without asking anybody for it. So I’m going to Nome to avoid slavery.” “Your husband doesn’t mind?” “He’s dead.” No trace of emotion in the low voice. But yielding to the invitation in the girl’s eyes, she told in brief outline of a hard life. The last six years of it alone. “But as to that, I was alone before. Only people didn’t know it, and so things were easier.” “How easier?” “There are always people to help the women who don’t need help”—and then something of the disillusion that followed upon her husband’s death; of difficult bread-winning; of inforced close relations with men through her work, and what she thought of them. “Exceptions? Well, I suppose so. I’ve once or twice thought the exception had come my way.” “And were you wrong—_always_ wrong?” “You see the kind of men a bookkeeper in a western town is thrown with—oh, you have to walk very warily, to hold yourself down, to seem to misunderstand—not to let your disgust cost you your bread and butter.” Hildegarde looked at the pure outline of the profile again. It was all very well to talk of having learnt lessons and of being over thirty, thought the girl. Mrs. Locke’s troubles aren’t over yet. But perhaps she would find something better than money on this journey, a real friend, or even—Several of the passengers were disposed to be conspicuously civil. There was that lawyer with the clever face. He was walking the deck now in the giant’s company, and every time he passed he looked at Mrs. Locke. “I’m sure that man wants to come and talk to you,” said Hildegarde. “If you get up, I shall go below.” “Why don’t you like Mr. Meyer?” “Why should I like Mr. Meyer?”