than was immediately necessary, but not more than was pleasant for him
to hear or for them to tell. It is a very taciturn man who, meeting a
stranger in a wilderness, does not treat him with more or less of
friendly loquacity.

Under the right circumstances Bates was a genial man. He liked the look
of these men; he liked the tone of their talk; and had he liked them
much less, the rarity of the occasion and the fact that he was their
host would have expanded his spirits. He asked astute questions about
the region they had traversed, and, as they talked, he motioned them
towards the house. He had it distinctly in his mind that he was glad
they had come across his place, and that he would give them a hot
breakfast; but he did not say so in words--just as they had not troubled
to begin their conversation with him by formal greetings.

The house door was still shut; there was still no smoke from the
chimney, although it was now full three hours since Bates had left the
place. Saying that he would see if the women were up, he went alone into
the house. The living-room was deserted, and, passing through the inner
door, which was open, he saw his aunt, who, according to custom was
neatly dressed, sitting on the foot of Sissy's empty bed. The old woman
was evidently cold, and frightened at the unusual sounds outside;
greatly fretted, she held the girl's night-cap in her hand, and the
moment he appeared demanded of him where Sissy was, for she must have
her breakfast. The girl he did not see.

The dog had followed him. He looked up and wagged his tail; he made no
sign of feeling concern that the girl was not there. Bates could have
cursed his dumbness; he would fain have asked where she had gone. The
dog probably knew, but as for Bates, he not only did not know, but no