“I suppose,” said her father, leaning heavily on his stick and looking at her from under his bushy eyebrows, “you think we’ve got hotels over yonder.” “Oh, no.” “There isn’t even a boarding-house—” “Mrs. L’Estrange _will_ be glad! She’s going to set up the very thing, and make her everlasting fortune.” “Well, _I’m_ glad”—Mar dropped into the nearest seat—“very glad you’re a sensible girl and take it like that.” Imagine his thinking she’d come expecting a hotel and all the comforts of home! That was why he seemed so harassed. “Poor father!” She put an arm about his crooked shoulders. It had been hard for him to make his way over the chaos of the beach, and he had got so wet coming out. How thoughtful of that dear Louis to bring him in here to rest before undertaking the return trip. The old man crossed his wrinkled hands on the knob of his heavy stick and slowly shook his head. “No, Nome wasn’t Paradise before, but since the invasion it’s a hell upon earth.” “Oh, father!” “Well, think of it! Something like forty thousand homeless people stranded over yonder on the beach.” “I’m glad _you_ haven’t been one of the homeless ones,” she said gently. “I don’t know how glad you’d be if you saw my one-roomed tent on the boggy tundra.” “Dearest.” She took off his big soft hat that impeached his dignity with an absurd operatic air, and she stroked the whitened hair. “It’s well I”—she looked across at her lover—“_we’ve_ come to look after you.” “Oh, I’m one of the fortunate Nomites! I tell you a man with _any_ sort of shelter over his head is in luck. Hundreds are sleeping on the beach in the cold and rain.” “Silly people not to buy a tent.” “Most of them did, and can’t get it landed or can’t find it in the hurly-burly.” “Oh, I hope mine won’t get lost!” “_Yours!_” “Yes, father, I’ve got a tent and two pairs of Hudson Bay blankets, waterproof boots, stout netting—for the mosquitoes, you know. Oh, I have heard all about those mosquitoes! I’ve got a canvas knapsack and an oil-stove, and oceans of oil, and a pistol and plenty of chocolates and six weeks’ provisions.” With a little encouragement she would have told him every item in that six weeks’ provision. She was distinctly proud of her list. Many people on the _Los Angeles_ had complimented her upon its judicious selection. But Nathaniel Mar’s face showed no pride—showed something even like horror. “I can’t think what you were about, Cheviot,” he said almost sharply. Hildegarde was still incredulous that Louis had been able to resist the natural temptation of “telling on her,” and saving his own credit. “Doesn’t father know—anything?” “Oh, yes, I told him—about us.” “It’s the one redeeming feature in the present situation,” said Mr. Mar. “Father!” She was really wounded by that. “But as I’ve told you already”—he turned his melancholy eyes on the young man—“I’d take more comfort in the intelligence if you hadn’t brought her up here!” “Does he say he brought me?”