"Yes—" answered Brent, a little awkwardly, "That's so. But, she's—a little different."
"But I will like her, I am sure, because she nursed you when you were sick. I know what you mean!" she exclaimed abruptly, and Brent saw that the dark eyes flashed, "You mean that people point at her the finger of scorn—as they would have pointed at me, had I been—as I thought I was. But it is all wrong, and I will not do that! And I will hate those who do! And I will tell them so!" she stamped her moccasined foot in anger, and the man laughed:
"My goodness!" he exclaimed feigning alarm, "I can see from here where I better get home to meals on time, and not forget to put the cat out."
"Now, you are making fun of me," she pouted, "But it is wrong, and you know it is, and maybe the very ones who do the pointing are worse in their hearts than she is."
"You said it!" cried Brent, "The ones that look down upon the frailties of others, are the very ones who need watching themselves. And that is a good thing to remember in picking out friends. And, darling, you can go as far as you like with Kitty. I'm for you. She's got a big heart, and there's a lot more to her than there is to most of 'em. But, come, it's dark, and we must be getting back to camp. See the little fire down on the edge of the timber line. It looks a thousand miles away."
And as they picked their way, side by side, down
the long slope, Brent was conscious that with the growing tenderness that each day's association with his wonder woman engendered, there was also a growing respect for her outlook upon life. Her years in the open had developed a sense of perception that was keen to separate the dross from the pure gold of human intent. "She's a great girl," he breathed, as he glanced at her profile, half hidden in the starlight, "She deserves the best that's in a man—and she'll get it!"
CHAPTER XXIII
IN THE TOILS
Late one afternoon, a dog sled, with Joe Pete in the lead, and Brent and Snowdrift following swung rapidly down the Klondike River. A few miles from Dawson, the outfit overtook a man walking leisurely toward town, a rifle swung over his shoulder. Recognizing him as one Zinn, a former hanger-on at Cuter Malone's, Brent called a greeting.