At intervals she cast a glance at the centre of the cabin, where a man and two boys were seated at a rough table. These must be her rescuers. She had fallen down in the snow the night before. Not even her fear of death had been able to keep her on her feet.
She stopped eating. "Who be you?"
"We be lumbermen, when the fit takes us," said the man, shortly.
"Well," said 'Tilda Jane, "I guess—" then she stopped, overpowered by intense feeling.
"I guess," she went on, finally, "that there wouldn't 'a' bin much o' me this morning if it hadn't bin for you comin'."
"'Twasn't us," said the man, agreeably, "'twas Poacher there," and he indicated the dog under the table, who, at the mention of his name, rose and walked politely toward the little girl.
He looked at her and she looked at him, then he took a step nearer and laid his muzzle on her shoulder. With exquisite subtlety he comprehended all that she wished to say in relation to himself, and all that she felt in relation to the dog race in general.
She laid her cheek against his velvet ear. Then her arm stole around his neck.
The dog stood in courteous silence, until, feeling embarrassed under her attention, he looked somewhat foolishly at his master, and appealingly licked 'Tilda Jane's cheek.
As quick to understand him as he was to understand her, she released him, whereupon he lay down beside her and put his handsome head on her lap.