The Yukon Trail | Page 8

seconds. But after all he was a
product of training and of the gymnasiums. Macdonald was what
nature and a long line of fighting Highland ancestors had made him.
His sinewy, knotted strength, his massive build, the breadth of shoulder
and depth of chest--mushing on long snow trails was the gymnasium
that had contributed to these.
The purser chuckled. "He's a good un, Mac is. They say he liked to
have drowned Northrup after he had saved him."
Elliot was again following with his eyes the lilt of the girl's movements.
Apparently he had not heard what the officer said. At least he gave no
answer.
With a grin the purser opened another attack. "Don't blame you a bit,
Mr. Elliot. She's the prettiest colleen that ever sailed from Dublin Bay."
The young man brought his eyes home. They answered engagingly the
smile of the purser.
"Who is she?"
"The name on the books is Sheba O'Neill."
"From Dublin, you say."

"Oh, if you want to be literal, her baggage says Drogheda. Ireland is
Ireland to me."
"Where is she bound for?"
"Kusiak."
The young woman passed them with a little nod of morning greeting to
the purser. Fine and dainty though she was, Miss O'Neill gave an
impression of radiant strength.
"Been with you all the way up the river?" asked Elliot after she had
passed.
"Yep. She came up on the Skagit from Seattle."
"What is she going to do at Kusiak?"
Again the purser grinned. "What do they all do--the good-looking
ones?"
"Get married, you mean?"
"Surest thing you know. Girls coming up ask me what to bring by way
of outfit. I used to make out a long list. Now I tell them to bring clothes
enough for six weeks and their favorite wedding march."
"Is this girl engaged?"
"Can't prove it by me," said the officer lightly. "But she'll never get out
of Alaska a spinster--not that girl. She may be going in to teach, or to
run a millinery store, or to keep books for a trading company. She'll
stay to bring up kiddies of her own. They all do."
Three children came up the stairway, caught sight of Miss O'Neill, and
raced pell-mell across the deck to her.
The young woman's face was transformed. It was bubbling with
tenderness, with gay and happy laughter. Flinging her arms wide, she

waited for them. With incoherent cries of delight they flung themselves
upon her. Her arms enveloped all three as she stooped for their hugs
and kisses.
The two oldest were girls. The youngest was a fat, cuddly little boy
with dimples in his soft cheeks.
"I dwessed myself, Aunt Sheba. Didn't I, Gwen?"
"Not all by yourself, Billie?" inquired the Irish girl, registering a proper
amazement.
He nodded his head slowly and solemnly up and down. "Honeth to
goodness."
Sheba stooped and held him off to admire. "All by yourself--just think
of that."
"We helped just the teeniest bit on the buttons," confessed Janet, the
oldest of the small family.
"And I tied his shoes," added Gwendolen, "after he had laced them."
"Billie will be such a big man Daddie won't know him." And Sheba
gave him another hug.
Gwendolen snuggled close to Miss O'Neill. "You always smell so
sweet and clean and violety, Aunt Sheba," she whispered in confidence.
"You're spoiling me, Gwen," laughed the young woman. "You've
kissed the blarney stone. It's a good thing you're leaving the boat
to-day."
Miss Gwen had one more confidence to make in the ear of her friend.
"I wish you'd come too and be our new mamma," she begged.
A shell-pink tinge crept into the milky skin of the Irish girl. She was
less sure of herself, more easily embarrassed, than the average
American of her age and sex. Occasionally in her manner was that

effect of shyness one finds in the British even after they have escaped
from provincialism.
"Are all your things gathered ready for packing, Janet?" she asked
quietly.
The purser gave information to Elliot. "They call her Aunt Sheba, but
she's no relative of theirs. The kids are on their way in to their father,
who is an engineer on one of the creeks back of Katma. Their mother
died two months ago. Miss O'Neill met them first aboard the Skagit on
the way up and she has mothered them ever since. Some women are
that way, bless 'em. I know because I've been married to one myself six
months. She's back there at St. Michael's, and she just grabs at every
baby in the block."
The eyes of Elliot rested on Miss O'Neill. "She loves children."
"She sure does--no bluff about that." An imp of mischief sparkled in
the eye of the supercargo. "Not married yourself, are you, Mr. Elliot?"
"No."
"Hmp!"
That