dance, or in the midst of a game of cribbage (a pack of cards had been discovered) when he was about to win, and she, glancing up at him and smiling gamely, in spite of pain, would hiss, "Beast!"
She suffered horribly. He knew that. Not only from the ankle. There seemed to be some difficulty with her back, too. She confessed to it finally, when he observed how cautiously she moved her arms.
"You're right. No use pretending," she had laughed. "It's a foolish backbone—about as appropriate for snow-shoeing as that paper-lined coat of mine."
Bord Mathewson seldom observed a woman's charms, and Edna Miller's were not of the kind to attract attention; but, strangely enough, their illusive quality was what caught him. The faint color in her cheeks was as evasive as sunshine on a cloudy day; and her blue eyes had a way of getting dark and starry when he, usually so loath to talk of his own affairs, found himself describing to her some of the hairbreadth escapes on the arctic trip. He persuaded himself that no man could be blind to the fine velvety texture of the girl's skin. That such a lovely creature could possess heroic qualities, too, jogged Bord Mathewson out of his usual indifference. She was
