that bespoke her nationality quite as plainly as did her features, her dazzling complexion, and her head of fine, straight flaxen hair.  She was Scandinavian, she was a Norsewoman; that much was instantly apparent.  She appeared to derive a certain malicious pleasure now from the consternation her appearance evoked; there was a hint of contempt, of defiance, in her smile.  In a voice so low-pitched that its quality alone saved it from masculinity, she said: 

“Pray don’t be distressed; you merely startled me, that’s all.  My Indians managed to get hold of some hootch at Tagish and upset our canoe just below here.  It was windy and of course they couldn’t swim—­none of them can, you know—­so I had hard work to save them.  I’ve already explained how I happened to select this particular refuge.  Your neighbors—­” her lip curled disdainfully, then she shrugged.  “Well, I never got such a reception as they gave me, but I suppose they’re cheechakos.  I’ll be off for Dyea early in the morning.  If you can put me up for the night I’ll pay you well.”

During this speech, delivered in a matter-of-fact, business-like tone, the owner of the tent had managed to overcome his first surprise; he removed his hat now and began with an effort: 

“I’m a bad hand at begging pardons, miss, but you see I’ve been suffering the pangs of bereavement lately over some dear, departed grub.  I thought you were a thief and I looked forward to the pleasure of seeing you dance.  I apologize.  Would you mind telling me where you came from?”

“From Dawson.”  There was a silence the while the flaxen-haired woman eyed her interrogator less disdainfully.  “Yes, by poling-boat and birch-bark.  I’m not fleeing the law; I’m not a cache-robber.”

“You’re—­all alone?”

The woman nodded.  “Can you stow me away for the night?  You may name your own price.”

“The price won’t cripple you.  I’m sorry there ain’t some more women here at Linderman, but—­there ain’t.  We had one—­a doctor’s wife, but she’s gone.”

“I met her at Lake Marsh.”

“We’ve a lot more coming, but they’re not here.  My name is Linton.  The more-or-less Christian prefix thereto is Tom.  I’ve got a partner named Jerry.  Put the two together, and drink hearty.  This young man is Mr.—­” The speaker turned questioningly upon Phillips, who made himself known.  “I’m a family man.  Mr. Phillips is a—­well, he’s a good packer.  That’s all I know about him.  I’m safe and sane, but he’s about the right age to propose marriage to you as soon as he gets his breath.  A pretty woman in this country has to expect that, as you probably know.”

The woman smiled and shook hands with both men, exchanging a grip as firm and as strong as theirs.  “I am the Countess Courteau,” said she.

“The—­which?” Mr. Linton queried, with a start.

The Countess laughed frankly.  “It is French, but I’m a Dane.  I think my husband bought the title—­they’re cheap in his country.  He was a poor sort of count, and I’m a poor sort of countess.  But I’m a good cook—­a very good cook indeed—­and if you’ll excuse my looks and permit me to wear your sweater I’ll prepare supper.”