"Miss Searight, I believe."
And she, reaching her right hand over the left, that still held the reins, leaned from her high seat, shaking hands with him and replying:
"Well—Mr. Bennett, I'm so very glad to see you again. Where did you come from?"
"From the City—and from seventy-six degrees north latitude."
"I congratulate you. We had almost given up hope of you."
"Thank you," he answered. "We were not so roseate with hope ourselves—all the time. But I have not felt as though I had really come back until this—well, until I had reached—the road between Bannister and Fourth Lake, for instance," and his face relaxed to its characteristic grim smile.
"You reached it too late, then," she responded. "Your dog has killed our Dan, and, what is much worse, started to eat him. He's a perfect savage."
"Kamiska? Well," he added, reflectively, "it's my fault for setting her a bad example. I ate her trace-mate, and was rather close to eating Kamiska herself at one time. But I didn't come down here to talk about that."
"You are looking rather worn, Mr. Bennett."
"I suppose. The doctor sent me into the country to call back the roses to my pallid cheek. So I came down here—to geologise. I presume that excuse will do as well as another." Then suddenly he cried: "Hello, steady there; quick, Miss Searight!"