Gordon Elliot meant what he said. He was himself an athlete, had played for three years left tackle on his college eleven. More than one critic had picked him for the All-America team. He could do his hundred in just a little worse than ten seconds. But after all he was a product of training and of the gymnasiums. Macdonald was what nature and a long line of fighting Highland ancestors had made him. His sinewy, knotted strength, his massive build, the breadth of shoulder and depth of chest--mushing on long snow trails was the gymnasium that had contributed to these. The purser chuckled. "He's a good un, Mac is. They say he liked to have drowned Northrup after he had saved him." Elliot was again following with his eyes the lilt of the girl's movements. Apparently he had not heard what the officer said. At least he gave no answer. With a grin the purser opened another attack. "Don't blame you a bit, Mr. Elliot. She's the prettiest colleen that ever sailed from Dublin Bay." The young man brought his eyes home. They answered engagingly the smile of the purser. "Who is she?" "The name on the books is Sheba O'Neill." "From Dublin, you say." "Oh, if you want to be literal, her baggage says Drogheda. Ireland is Ireland to me." "Where is she bound for?" "Kusiak." The young woman passed them with a little nod of morning greeting to the purser. Fine and dainty though she was, Miss O'Neill gave an impression of radiant strength. "Been with you all the way up the river?" asked Elliot after she had passed. "Yep. She came up on the Skagit from Seattle." "What is she going to do at Kusiak?" Again the purser grinned. "What do they all do--the good-looking ones?" "Get married, you mean?" "Surest thing you know. Girls coming up ask me what to bring by way of outfit. I used to make out a long list. Now I tell them to bring clothes enough for six weeks and their favorite wedding march." "Is this girl engaged?" "Can't prove it by me," said the officer lightly. "But she'll never get out of Alaska a spinster--not that girl. She may be going in to teach, or to run a millinery store, or to keep books for a trading company. She'll stay to bring up kiddies of her own. They all do." Three children came up the stairway, caught sight of Miss O'Neill, and raced pell-mell across the deck to her. The young woman's face was transformed. It was bubbling with tenderness, with gay and happy laughter. Flinging her arms wide, she waited for them. With incoherent cries of delight they flung themselves upon her. Her arms enveloped all three as she stooped for their hugs and kisses. The two oldest were girls. The youngest was a fat, cuddly little boy with dimples in his soft cheeks. "I dwessed myself, Aunt Sheba. Didn't I, Gwen?" "Not all by yourself, Billie?" inquired the Irish girl, registering a proper amazement. He nodded his head slowly and solemnly up and down. "Honeth to goodness."