Olaf could see farther than others, because he had known Alan's father as a brother.

It had always been that way with the elder Holt--straight, clean, deep-breathing, and with a smile on his lips in times of hurt.
Olaf had seen him face death like that.

He had seen him rise up with awesome courage from the beautiful form that had turned to clay under his eyes, and fight forth again into a world burned to ashes.

Something of that look which he had seen in the eyes of the father he saw in Alan's, in these days when they nosed their way up the Alaskan coast together.

Only to himself did Alan speak the name of Mary Standish, just as his father had kept Elizabeth Holt's name sacred in his own heart.
Olaf, with mildly casual eyes and strong in the possession of memories, observed how much alike they were, but discretion held his tongue, and he said nothing to Alan of many things that ran in his mind.
He talked of Siberia--always of Siberia, and did not hurry on the way to Seward.