When at last Marian got a look at Patsy’s face, she found it almost as brown as her own. And as for freckles, there could scarcely have been a greater number on one person’s face. Her mouth, too, had lines that Marian liked. It was a firm, determined little mouth that said: “When I have a hill to climb I _run_ up it.”
Never had Marian beheld such a wealth of color as was displayed in Patsy’s winter wardrobe. Orange and red sweaters; great, broad scarfs of mixed grays; gay tams; short plaid skirts; heavy brown corduroy knickers; these and many other garments of exquisite workmanship and design were spread out before her.
“And the fun of it all is,” giggled Patsy, “we’re going to play we’re twins and wear one another’s clothes. You’ve got a spotted fawnskin parka, I know you have. I’m going to wear that, right away—this afternoon. Going to have my picture taken in it and send it back to my school friends.”
“All right,” agreed Marian. “You can have anything I own. I’m heavier than you are, but arctic clothing doesn’t fit very tight, so I guess it will be all right.”
As if to clinch the bargain, she wound an orange colored scarf about her neck and went strutting across the room.
A half hour later, while Patsy was out having her picture taken, Marian walked slowly up and down the room. She was thinking, and her thoughts were long, long thoughts.
“I like her,” she said at last. “I’m going to like her more and more. But it’s going to be hard for her sometimes, fearfully hard. When the blizzards sweep in from the north and we’re all shut in; when no one comes and no one goes, and the nights are twenty hours long; when the dogs howl their lonesome song—it’s going to be hard for her then. But I’ll do the best I can for her. Her father was right—it will do her a world of good. It will teach her the slow and steady patience of those who live in the North, and that’s a good thing to know.”
Three weeks later the two girls, toiling wearily along after two reindeer sleds, approached the black bulk of the old scow in the river, the one in which Marian had seen the mysterious purple flame. Again it was night. They were on their way north to the reindeer herd. Traveling over the first soft snow of winter, they had made twenty miles that day. For the last hour Patsy had not uttered a single word. She had tramped doggedly after the sled. Only her drooping shoulders told how weary she was. Marian had hoped against hope that they would this time find the old dredge deserted.