“I am glad to think you aren’t in your heart taking it as lightly as you pretend.” But the incident rather spoilt things. Instead of being able to yield unreservedly to the comfort, yes, the joy of his being there, a counter influence was at work. A watchfulness, critical, even painful. Not so much of Cheviot as of herself. _Was_ she the kind of girl Mrs. Locke had meant?—the kind who said, “I’m all right. What does it matter about other women.” Something in her soul revolted at the charge. In other moods she was conscious only of a blind rebellion against this evil trick fate had played her—perversely thrusting into the foreground a thing so little representative of the man. Offering this, forsooth, as a symbol of all that lay behind. A lying symbol. He wasn’t like that. _Was_ he? He had been “frantic” about her. Ah, the subtle danger of that solace, feeding self-love, divorcing her from her less fortunate sisters. Few people minded the lowering weather the next day, since it brought a sight of land. Yet one had need to be at sea for a week and a half to find comfort in this vision of a dim gray rock rising out of a gray sea to starboard; or on the port side, a range of snow-flecked hills, with clouds hanging low over the crater of an extinct volcano. How bleak the world up here in the Aleutians! Then suddenly, for Hildegarde, the chill vision warmed and glowed. “This is the kind of thing John Galbraith is looking at on the other side of the globe!” To every one’s huge satisfaction the _Los Angeles_, skirting Ounalaska, showed no sign of pausing. Instead of turning off toward Dutch Harbor to learn if the ice had yielded up yonder and the way was clear, boldly the ship took the short cut through Unimak Pass into the Bering Sea. What splendid time they were making under the convoy of this best of all captains! People went about boasting, “Nome by Sunday!” “We’ll make the record trip!” “—Make the big fortunes!” “We’ll beat creation!” “Splendid fellow, our captain!” Never such luck before in this bedeviled course. Toward three o’clock the next morning Hildegarde was waked by the noise of hurrying feet above her head and a great hubbub in the saloon. “Mrs. Locke?” Her berth was empty. In the narrow cabin two half-dressed women were agitatedly hunting their belongings, while the dressmaker, Miss Tillie Jump, screamed through the door to know if there was any danger. “What’s happened?” asked Hildegarde, tumbling down out of her berth. “We are in the ice.” “Masses all round us high as the ship.”