I know that I, Frona, in the flesh, am here, in a Peterborough, paddling for dear life with two men; year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-eight, Alaska, Yukon River; this is water, that is ice; my arms are tired, my heart up a few beats, and I am sweating,--and yet it seems all a dream.

Just think! A year ago I was in Paris!" She drew a deep breath and looked out over the water to the further shore, where Jacob Welse's tent, like a snowy handkerchief, sprawled against the deep green of the forest.

"I do not believe there is such a place," she added.

"There is no Paris." "And I was in London a twelvemonth past," Corliss meditated.

"But I have undergone a new incarnation.