"Do you know the Pass?"
"I can find my way."
"Do you know it?"
He shook his head. She tapped one glove against the other.
"It is impossible then. You—"
"I'll make it some way. Thank you—for helping me."
He started on. But she called him back.
"It's dangerous—too dangerous," and there was a note of pity in her voice. "It's bad enough on foot when there's no snow—if you're not familiar with it. I—"
"Tell me the way. Perhaps I could find it. It's not for myself. I made a promise to the child's mother. I'm afraid she's dying."
A new light came into the girl's eyes, a light of compassion, of utmost pity,—the pity that one can feel for some one who has transgressed, some one who faces the penalty, who feels the lash of the whip, yet does not cry out. Slowly she came toward Houston, then bent to tighten the fastenings of her snowshoes.