She gazed at them until the sense of increasing cold checked her rapture, and made her move regretfully toward the door and rap on it.
It was immediately opened by a brown-eyed child, and held far back as if she were expected to enter.
"Can you tell me where Mr. Hobart Dillson lives?"
"Ou-ay, ma'mzelle," murmured the child, bashfully hanging her head.
"But enter—it is cold," called the mother, rising and coming forward, stocking in hand.
'Tilda Jane felt drawn toward this alluring family circle, and one minute later was sitting in a chair on its circumference.
"But come in, dawgie," said the mother gently to Poacher, who stood hesitating on the threshold.
He came in, and was greeted silently and politely by two respectable curs that rose from the hearth-stone for the purpose, then he lay down beside them, and gratefully extended his limbs to the fire.
'Tilda Jane sat for a minute looking about her without speaking. These people were not staring at her, but they were all stealing occasional curious glances in her direction.
"I'm lookin' for Hobart Dillson's," she said, bluntly, "but I guess there ain't no such person, for the nearer I get the more he seems to run off."