She turned her wet face to the door again. The tossing boat out yonder seemed to go down before her eyes. “Don’t let any one in!” “No, no.” There it was again, like a toy boat dancing wildly before destruction. “What I mind most,” the faint voice whispered, “is not holding out till—I got across to Alaska. All those months—all that sacrifice—all that suffering—and fail in such a little thing!” “Why,” interrupted the girl, “why did you want to get to Alaska?” “Why? I—I don’t seem to remember. There was a reason. But it’s too far.” “You don’t mean—” “I shall never get there now. Do you hear the music, Ky?” “The music?” “Screaming of the ptarmigan. Music to us, wasn’t it?” In a changed voice, rational, but weak: “I can’t see you, Ky.” “She’s here, with me, at the door.” “Then she’s dim as she used to be when she plodded on in front, wrapped in her cloud of frost-smoke.” “Please try to listen. I—see the sailors bringing the little boat through the surf.” “That’s easy. Let ’em try the ice!” “They’re coming for me.” “You—you?” “You don’t remember.” “Yes, I do.” “I am—” “Ky’s friend. Thank you.” Feebly he put out his hand. But he would have drawn it back, if hers had not closed trembling over it. “Oh, Jack! Jack!” she cried to herself, conscious of an anguished impulse to hide the marred hands in her breast to see if pity might not heal them! “I think whatever comes of it,” she said brokenly, “I mustn’t go.” The glazed eyes looked at her in faint wonder. “Because I am Hildegarde.” “That wasn’t her name.” “No, no. I am _Hildegarde Mar_.” “A nice name.” “But you’ve heard it before.” “Hildegarde—?” The faintest motion of the wild head making “No.” “Yes, yes.” She was on her knees by the bed. “My father was your friend. My father is Nathaniel Mar.” He said nothing for a moment. She thought he was trying to coördinate the memories her words recalled. But when he spoke it was to say, “No one must know but Bella—only Bella in all the world.” “Only Bella,” said the girl, and rose upright. But through her tears she saw that his lips still moved. “Will you—” he whispered. She bent down again to catch the words. “Will you stand at the door—till the boat is beached?” Hoping, with a catch at the heart, that old association dimly stirred by the name Mar had brought him some warmth of her presence in this chill hour, she tried to find a voice to ask why he wanted her to wait those few poor minutes at the door. But she had no need to put the question. His eyes made answer, trying to follow Ky, as the dog left the threshold and went with her slow, halting gait, aimless, half across the little strip of tundra to the sea.