Now Rouletta had learned much about this big woodsman’s peculiarities; among other things she had discovered that he took extravagant delight in his so-called “s’prises.”  They were many and varied, now a titbit to tempt her palate, or again a native doll which needed a complete outfit of moccasins, cap, and parka, and which he insisted he had met on the trail, very numb from the cold; again a pair of rabbit-fur sleeping-socks for herself.  That crude dresser, which he had completed without her suspecting him, was another.  Always he was making or doing something to amuse or to occupy her attention, and, although his gifts were poor, sometimes absurdly simple, he had, nevertheless, the power of investing them with importance.  Being vitally interested in all things, big or little, he stimulated others to share in that interest.  Life was an enjoyable game, inanimate objects talked to him, every enterprise was tinted imaginary colors, and he delighted in pretense—­welcome traits to Rouletta, whose childhood had been starved.

“What is my new s’prise?” she queried.  But, without answering, ’Poleon rose and left the tent; he was back a moment later with a bundle in his hands.  This bundle he unrolled, displaying a fine fur parka, the hood of which was fringed with a deep fox-tail facing, the skirt and sleeves of an elaborate checker-board pattern of multicolored skins.  Gay squirrel-tail streamers depended from its shoulders as further ornamentation.  Altogether it was a splendid specimen of Indian needlework and Rouletta gasped with delight.

“How wonderful!” she cried.  “Is—­it for me?” The pilot nodded.  “Sure t’ing.  De purtiest one ever I see.  But look!” He called her attention to a beaver cap, a pair of beaded moose-hide mittens, and a pair of small fur boots that went with the larger garments—­ altogether a complete outfit for winter travel.  “I buy him from dose hinjun hunter.  Put him on, queeck.”

Rouletta slipped into the parka; she donned cap and mittens; and ’Poleon was in raptures.

“By golly!  Dat’s beautiful!” he declared.  “Now you’ fix for sure.  No matter how col’ she come, your li’l toes goin’ be warm, you don’ froze your nose—­”

“You’re good and true—­and—­” Rouletta faltered, then added, fervently, “I shall always thank God for knowing you.”

Now above all things Doret dreaded his “sister’s” serious moods or any expression of her gratitude; he waved her words aside with an airy gesture and began in a hearty tone: 

“We don’t stop dis place no longer.  To-morrow we start for Dyea.  Wat you t’ink of dat, eh?  Pretty queeck you be home.”  When his hearer displayed no great animation at the prospect he exclaimed, in perplexity:  “You fonny gal.  Ain’t you care?”

“I have no home,” she gravely told him.

“But your people—­dey goin’ be glad for see you?”

“I have no people, either.  You see, we lived a queer life, father and I. I was all he had, outside of poor Danny Royal, and he—­was all I had.  Home was where we happened to be.  He sold everything to come North; he cut all ties and risked everything on a single throw.  That was his way, our way—­all or nothing.  I’ve been thinking lately; I’ve asked myself what he would have wished me to do, and—­I’ve made up my mind.”