We found out afterwards that she had put the girl in a
boarding-school, but couldn't seem to make enough for both of them,
and when the Klondyke was struck thought she saw a chance. She came
north, insulted by deck hands and laughed at by the officers. At
Skagway she nursed a man through typhoid, and when he could walk he
robbed her. The mounted police took everything else she had and
mocked at her. "Your kind always has money," they said.

That's how it had been everywhere, and that's why she was so hard and
bitter. She'd worked and fought like a man, but she'd suffered like
a woman.

"I've lied and starved and stolen for her," said Annie, "to make her
think I was doing well. She said she was coming in to me, but I knew
winter would catch her at Dawson, and I thought I could head her off
by spring."

"Now, she's here; but, men, as your mothers loved you, save me from
my little girl."

She buried her face, and when I looked at the boys, tears stood in
Joe Slisco's eyes and the others breathed hard. Ole Lund, him that
was froze worst about the hands, spoke up:

"Someboady tak de corner dat blanket an' blow may nose."

Then we heard voices outside.

"Hello, in there."