She did not wait for either of them to speak, but flashed the two a swift smile and passed down the promenade.

The music had ceased and the cabins at last were emptying themselves of life.

“A remarkable young woman,” Alan remarked.  “I imagine that the spirit of Captain Miles Standish may be a little proud of this particular olive-branch.  A chip off the old block, you might say.  One would almost suppose he had married Priscilla and this young lady was a definite though rather indirect result.”

He had a curious way of laughing without any more visible manifestation of humor than spoken words.  It was a quality in his voice which one could not miss, and at times, when ironically amused, it carried a sting which he did not altogether intend.

In another moment Mary Standish was forgotten, and he was asking the captain a question which was in his mind.

“The itinerary of this ship is rather confused, is it not?”

“Yes—­rather,” acknowledged Captain Rifle.  “Hereafter she will ply directly between Seattle and Nome.  But this time we’re doing the Inside Passage to Juneau and Skagway and will make the Aleutian Passage via Cordova and Seward.  A whim of the owners, which they haven’t seen fit to explain to me.  Possibly the Canadian junket aboard may have something to do with it.  We’re landing them at Skagway, where they make the Yukon by way of White Horse Pass.  A pleasure trip for flabby people nowadays, Holt.  I can remember—­”

“So can I,” nodded Alan Holt, looking at the mountains beyond which lay the dead-strewn trails of the gold stampede of a generation before.  “I remember.  And old Donald is dreaming of that hell of death back there.  He was all choked up tonight.  I wish he might forget.”

“Men don’t forget such women as Jane Hope,” said the captain softly.

“You knew her?”

“Yes.  She came up with her father on my ship.  That was twenty-five years ago last autumn, Alan.  A long time, isn’t it?  And when I look at Mary Standish and hear her voice—­” He hesitated, as if betraying a secret, and then he added:  “—­I can’t help thinking of the girl Donald Hardwick fought for and won in that death-hole at White Horse.  It’s too bad she had to die.”

“She isn’t dead,” said Alan.  The hardness was gone from his voice.  “She isn’t dead,” he repeated.  “That’s the pity of it.  She is as much a living thing to him today as she was twenty years ago.”

After a moment the captain said, “She was talking with him early this evening, Alan.”

“Miss Captain Miles Standish, you mean?”

“Yes.  There seems to be something about her that amuses you.”

Alan shrugged his shoulders.  “Not at all.  I think she is a most admirable young person.  Will you have a cigar, Captain?  I’m going to promenade a bit.  It does me good to mix in with the sour-doughs.”

The two lighted their cigars from a single match, and Alan went his way, while the captain turned in the direction of his cabin.