A week after the funeral, a stranger would not have known from her manner that suddenly she had been deprived of one of her dearest relatives. She never spoke of having a philosophy of life, but something of the sort seemed to sustain her. Her whole behavior indicated that she was determined not to make others unhappy with her personal grief. They all had their lives to live in a location that made life difficult. Moira O'Malley would do her utmost to make the winter as happy as might be. She did not even ask if it were not possible to send her "Outside," now that the reason for her presence had been removed by Fate.
Harry Karmack, bearing a book to Mission House in the hope that gloomy thought might be diverted thereby, had been the first of the rivals to discover her mental attitude. He had been prompt to act on his important discovery. Besides the volume, he left an invitation to dinner for the girl and her hosts. Sergeant Russell Seymour, official head of the tiny community, was not among those present, having received no invitation.
Now, this was a breach of camp etiquette which could not be overlooked. Far worse than the cut direct, it was nearly as much an insult as a blow in the face. When a handful of whites are segregated in a bronze man's country, they naturally cling to each other as they do to the "alders." Everyone possibly within the pale is invited to everything that approaches a function. Even squaw-men are asked to attend if they retain a semblance of presentability.
There was no possible question that Factor Harry Karmack's dinner was a function. Although it had never been mentioned by Moira or the Morrows, the sergeant had all the details. These had been relayed by his native hostler who had them direct from the Arctic's interpreter, the latter having acted as butler for the all-important occasion. The meal had been served in courses, mind you, for the first time in the history of the camp. The factor's store of delicacies, even to the tinned plum pudding, intended for the Christmas feast, had been freely broached.
Seymour could not hope to equal such a spread from police rations, but he was not to be outdone in hospitality. Miss O'Malley and the Morrows had accepted his invitation to a sour-dough luncheon. The factor had not accepted for an excellent reason that you probably can imagine.
The three from Mission House were coming this very noon and the sergeant had been occupied part of the morning correcting the haphazard housekeeping of quarters. In fact, they had come, as was attested by the knocking upon the front door.
More lovely than ever Moira seemed to him as she returned a smile to his enthusiastic greetings. She was dressed to-day entirely in white, the first time he had ever seen her in anything but black.
"What a snow bird you are, Moira!" he exclaimed, almost forgetting to greet the missionaries.
"In that case, I'm relieved you're not packing a gun, Sergeant Scarlet."
"Not even side arms," he said, releasing his whimsical smile. "I'm the one that's wounded—fluttering. Put your wraps in the tent, all of you, and I'll put you to work."