Then had come word of what appeared to them a wonderful opportunity. The government was to send two hundred or more families to the rich Matamuska Valley in Alaska. They were to be given land and to be loaned money that they might make a fresh start.

“Pioneers! They will be pioneers in a new land!” Florence, who was of true pioneer stock, young, sturdy and strong, had exclaimed. “Why should we not go?”

Why, indeed? They had applied, had been accepted, and here they were at the seaport of the railroad that was to bear them on to their new world.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered softly to herself. “Tomorrow, to—” At that she fell fast asleep.

If the scene of confusion on the dock at Anchorage with the trucks, tractors, tents, and groceries had seemed strange, the picture before Florence, Mary and Mark a few days later might, to a casual observer, have seemed even more strange. Palmer, dream city of the future, lay before them. And such a city! A city of tents. Yet, city of tents as it was, it did not lack signs of excitement. This was the great day. On this day the future home owners of this rich valley, surrounded by its snow-capped mountains, were to draw lots for their tracts of land. Some tracts were close to Palmer, some ten or twelve miles away. A few settlers there were who wished for solitude in the far-off spots. Many hoped for tracts close in, where they might walk into town for their mail and to join in the latest gossip. Florence, Mary, and Mark had sensed the bleak loneliness of distant farms during the long winter. They too hoped for a spot close at hand.

“Now,” Florence whispered as, after a long time of waiting in line, Mark approached the drawing stand. “Now it is your turn!”

Mark’s hand trembled as it went out. Florence felt her heart pause, then go leaping. It meant so much, so very much, that tiny square of paper with a number on it.

Turning away from the curious throng, Mark cupped his hand, then together they all three peered at that magic number.

“One hundred and twelve!” Florence whispered tensely. “Here—here is our map. Where is our farm? Here! Here! Let’s look!”

One moment of hurried search, then a sigh of disappointment. “Seven miles from town.” Mary dropped limply down upon a stump.