A Daughter of the Snows
“All ready, Miss Welse, though I’m sorry we can’t spare one of the steamer’s boats.” Frona Welse arose with alacrity and came to the first officer’s side. “We’re so busy,” he explained, “and gold-rushers are such perishable freight, at least–” “I understand,” she interrupted, “and I, too, am behaving as though I were perishable. And I am sorry for the trouble I am giving you, but–but–” She turned quickly and pointed to the shore. “Do you see that big log-house? Between the clump of
pines and the river? I was born there.”