“An easy life—for that day.”

“A hard life.”

“Bridie darling, don’t be offended—but were you ever—after all, you’d been tricked into coming to Baranof—were you ever tempted to give up and go into one of the—–”

“I was a nurse,” Bridie said, simply.

“I never could understand why you didn’t marry either Grampa Thor or Grampa Czar—anyway, after both my grandmothers died or whatever it was. At least, I suppose Grampa Thor’s wife died, too. My other grandmother. Doesn’t it sound mixed up! But anyway, why didn’t you? I’ve seen those pictures of you, you were young and—and fresh—and your eyes looked out so straight and honest and direct.”

“That was it, I guess. Straight and honest and direct. I don’t mean to sound crabby. Truth was, I was in love with both of them, it sounds crazy, but it isn’t. They weren’t in love with me. There I was, looking after you when your ma died that awful death, nursing everybody, and I was in the house, either Czar’s house or Thor’s, day in day out, crackling around all starched and bossy and independent. Everything plain and aboveboard, like you say. I was like a loaf of bread in the house. There’s always a loaf of bread in any house, poor or rich, there it is, if it’s only half a loaf or a bit of the heel, it’s bread, you don’t get excited about it, you take it for granted. That was me.”

“But Mrs.—Mrs. Ballantyne. Of course now everybody calls you Bridie, but you must have married somebody.”

“I did. Hardly anybody knows that. I was discouraged, I guess, about Czar and Thor. Czar was looking higher than me, and Thor was in the clouds, he had to be democratic, he was hell-bent on being democratic, he had to be more democratic than the usual run, so be married as much outside of his own line as Czar had outside of his—but in what they call reverse. I was married one week to a fellow from Nome, I’d put by a bit of money, nursing, and he skipped out with it. It was pretty hard to skip out anywhere in Alaska those days, there was nothing to skip in or on except by dog sled or boat. So maybe the varmints got him, I never heard. I just kept my name Ballantyne and left it at that. Chris, I’ve almost forgotten how he looked. Isn’t that awful!”

“You’re wonderful, Bridie darling. You’re as vital and wonderful today as you were then.”

“I’m an old woman. I’m not talking in complaint. I’ve had a fine ride of it, the people and the scenery every inch of the way. The world owes me nothing. Now I’m an old old woman, and not really needed.”

“Don’t say that. We all need you. I need you, the children need you. Everybody—–”

“Nope. Not so. Who cares about the old, really? Well, I’ll tell you, Chris dearie. Nobody. They say they care, they say ain’t she wonderful now, my, she’s young for her age, look at the way she gets around, her mind is clear as a bell! But they don’t really care and why should they? It’s only natural. I say to myself, I say, you’ve had your nice ride, you’re old, the new models come along, the old ones only block traffic on Gold Street, they have to pull over to the side to let the new ones go by, the fast ones, the big bright-colored blue-paint jobs.”