“But God hasn’t forbidden,” said the girl, swallowing the sob that sight of the haggard face had brought into her throat. She was conscious, too, that her fellow-travelers were eagerly listening to the colloquy. “I’ve been telling Cheviot I can’t think how he could allow you—” Mr. Mar caught himself up and laid his hand affectionately on the young man’s shoulder. “Of course Louis didn’t really know. The Nome he left was bad enough, but that Nome has passed away. To-day it isn’t a place for a girl to stay in an hour.” “’Sh! father! You’ll scare my friends. This is Mrs. Blumpitty. She thinks very highly of Nome. And this is Mr. Blumpitty. Mother put me under their care, and they’ve been _so_ kind. They’ve brought a big party up again this year. We’ve all come believing great things of the new camp.” The moment the handshaking was over, “This way,” Cheviot said, and while the talk buzzed, and the dog somewhere down yonder among the swarming rowboats howled dismally, and questions showered on the man from Nome, Louis was leading Mr. Mar toward the companionway. “Oh, yes,” said Hildegarde, “my suit-case and things. But father needn’t trouble to come below. I’ve had everything packed and ready _for hours_!” She smiled at Cheviot across the halting figure. “What kept you so, Louis? Couldn’t you find him?” “You can’t get along very fast over there,” Cheviot answered. “_You_ couldn’t?” “Nobody can. There’s a wall of stuff piled higgledy-piggledy for a mile along the shore.” “Dingleys and McKeowns, and—” “Yes, and grub. Tons of it. Hundreds of barrels of whisky. Thousands of bags of flour and beans piled higher than my head. Lumber—acres of it. Furniture and bedding, engines and boilers, mixed up with sides of bacon and blankets, and a sprinkling of centrifugal pumps and Klondike thawers. How they’ll ever sort that chaos—” “The next high tide will save them the trouble,” said Nathaniel Mar. “Well, it’s a queer sight. Hundreds and hundreds of people, Hildegarde, sitting on top of their worldly goods, looking as if they’d never stir again. Like so many Robinson Crusoes, each one on his own desert island, among the wreck of his possessions.” Hildegarde smiled. Louis was only pointing out that Nome justified his prophecy. A form of “I told you so.” But he was speaking to her father. “And the faces! You’re used to them, but I—” He caught Hildegarde’s significant little smile and deliberately changed the tune. “Of course there’s a lot of hustling, too,” he ended, stopping by the smoking-room door. “Yes, the old story,” said Hildegarde’s father, wearily. “All land there free and equal from the common life of the ships. Twenty minutes, and some are masters and others are slaves.” “I thought there’d be no one here!” Cheviot said with satisfaction, as he held open the door. “Isn’t the boat ready to take us back?” Hildegarde asked.