"Yes, it's first-rate feed. Do you think Miss Blake will let me keep him?"
His answer was entirely lost by a sudden outbreak from the dogs.
"Good Lord!" said Cosme, making himself heard, "what a breed! Isn't that awful! Why does she keep the brutes? Isn't she scared they'll eat her?"
Sheila shook her head. Presently the tumult quieted down. "They're afraid of her," she said. "She has a dreadful whip. She likes to bully them. I think she's rather cruel. But she does love Berg; she says he's the only real dog in the pack."
"Was Berg the one on the bearskin inside?"
"Yes."
"He's sure a beauty. But I don't like him. He has wolf eyes. See here—you're shivering. I've kept you out here in the cold. I'll go. Good-night. Thank you for keeping the horse. Will you come down to see my house? I built it"—he drawled the words—"for you"—and added after a tingling moment—"to see, ma'am."
This experiment in words sent Sheila to the house, her hand crushed and aching with his good-bye grasp, her heart jumping with a queer fright.
Miss Blake stood astraddle on the hearth, her hands behind her back.
"You better go to bed, Sheila," she said; "it's eleven o'clock and to-morrow's wash-day."