And now came the day of days! Early in the morning we reloaded our boat, and set out eagerly. The wind helped us somewhat in our upward pull but it was a hard tug. Often we propped our load, and halted for breath. The hill seemed to grow longer as we ascended.

“Nick,” said Gale, “I believe this is the South Pole, and that we’re climbing it.”

“It isn’t quite that,” I said, “but it may be the end of the bare rocks and snow. I shouldn’t wonder if all this bare rock has had the dirt washed off by the million years or so of melting drifts. We’ve already seen dirt along the river bank, and there should be more of it where the snow ends. If this is the place, it explains this rise.”

We tugged on and up. When at last we were within a stone’s throw of the summit, our eagerness made us silent. We halted once more before the final effort.

“Nick,” panted Gale, “it’s the Promised Land. You’re entitled to the first look. Go on ahead, and come back and tell us.”

“No,” I said, “we’ll leave the boat here, and go up four abreast, to look over.”

“Anyhow, you’ll see it first, that way,” said Gale, “and Bill next.”

Side by side we hurried forward. Just at the brow, the hill was a bit steeper, and there was a surface of bare rock, over which we scrambled, and a moment later stood on the summit. Then——

Before us—level upland with here and there a patch of white, where snow still lingered. But between and beyond the white, beginning at our feet, and stretching away to the farthest horizon limits, a thick, yielding carpet of wonderful Purple Violets!

Mr. Sturritt was first to speak.

“The Lord be praised for all His mercies!” he said.

Ferratoni was down with his face among the leaves and blossoms.

Gale said: “I’ve been to violet receptions before, but this rather lays it over anything, so far.”

As for me, I was silent. I hardly knew what I had expected to see. Perhaps trees—perhaps a distant city—perhaps a waste of barren downs. But certainly not this. I knew, of course, that flowers bloomed at the very edge of Alaskan glaciers, but perhaps I had forgotten. Like Ferratoni, I got down to feel and smell them. They had a sweet, delicate odor, that had been borne from us by the wind. The blossom itself was somewhat different in form from our northern violets, and was of a darker hue. The leaf was smaller.

Through a sea of bloom we pushed our boat toward the river above the rapids. The banks were lower, here, and there was no more ice. We were presently sailing between violet-scented shores, and the silence and balm that was in the air brought forgetfulness of our difficulties. To the ship we attempted to convey the great news, but now our telephone failed us almost entirely, and in spite of all that Ferratoni could do to it, it was with the greatest difficulty that we finally conveyed the bare facts, sacrificing altogether the poetic details of the scene about us.

My first attempt to explain to Edith that we were met with violets was understood by her to be “violence,” and this was not easy to get rid of. However, she comprehended at last, and had she been standing on top of the ice-barrier, I think she could have heard me, without the telephone. As for her voice, it was lost utterly in the wide space between, and only the searching quality of Captain Biffer’s tones could convey to us her replies. Even these were lost when we tried again, a little later. Being thus cut off from the ship saddened us, in spite of our pleasant surroundings.

“We’ll have to go it alone,” commented Gale. “Mebbe we’ll hit another set of vibrations up here, somewhere, and be all right again. We’re likely to strike most anything now. Anyway Johnnie knows we were doing well at last accounts. Do you know,” he added, some minutes later, “this would be a great place to lay out an addition. Violet Mead—how’s that for a name? Acre property, no grading, and if there was any way of getting over that ice-wall, it would be the easiest thing in the world to run a gravity railroad down the snowbank from Bottle Bay right to this meadow. There’s a steady incline and the drifts would be easy to cut through.”

“How about the melting underneath in the summer, and the drifting overhead in the winter?” I asked. “I think a line of balloons would be more practical.”

Gale shook his head.

“No more balloons in mine. The going is well enough, but it’s the free and easy way you have of starting and stopping that I object to.”

Gradually the sun slipped down behind the violet fields. The wind died, and a scented, luminous twilight fell. The atmosphere was like an evening in late April. We were preparing to land for the night, when a dark speck appeared on the river ahead. The surface of the water was a dull red gold, reflecting the western sky. Into this there had drifted a sharp, black outline—a boat, we saw presently—a sort of canoe. It was the first indication of human life, and we held our breath, wondering. As it approached, it appeared empty.

We turned our craft toward it, and it drifted just under our side. We leaned over and looked down. A face looked up into ours—the white, dead face of a beautiful young girl, and above and about her there were masses and festoons of flowers.

We held the boat a little, and regarded the sleeper without speaking. She was so beautiful, and had come to us so silently out of the unknown land.

Twilight deepened.

Then presently we loosed the little funeral boat, and saw it pass down into the dimness of evening to the land of eternal cold.

“It was a part of just such a boat that we found in Bottle Bay,” Gale said, as we drew near the shore. “This accounts for its being there.”

I assented, but we did not discuss the matter further, and we spoke but little as we prepared for the night. Communication with those behind had ceased. Before us was mystery, and about us silence. Cut off from every tie we knew, we had entered an enchanted land, and the spell of its potent magic came down with the perfumed dark.