“I’m afraid so. I’ve been told not to put my foot to the ground—or else I’d hobble to the town and hunt up a man I’ve heard lives hereabouts.” Ah, _that_ interested the disreputable one quite as much, apparently, as it did Miss Mar. “I wonder if _you_ know him! A queer, hermit sort of person who discovered the—What’s the matter?” “I knowed all along what ye’d come fur.” “Oh, we didn’t _come_ for that—it was only my idea—but it’s not much good now I’m crippled.” “What did yer want to see him fur?” “Oh, just to hear him talk.” “Ye-es. I been told they’s a lot would ’a’ liked to hear him talk, only it’s no go. And people gits tired o’ feedin’ a feller with such a parshallity fur keepin’ his mouth shut.” Cheviot had come back with, “Put that away!” as he caught sight of the revolver. “I’ve made a kind of chair for you, and lined it with overcoat.” He half carried her over to the rocks, while she clung to him, sparing the hurt foot. The man with the long, lank chin-beard, like the last nine inches of a cow’s tail, watched proceedings with a critical eye. “There now!” Louis had established her to his satisfaction. “And Red’ll take care of you since he’s grown such a gentleman. You hear, Red?” he admonished the cock-eared dog. “Reddy hears, and Reddy’ll do it, but if I weren’t so hopelessly happy I’d be rather miserable at finding myself a prisoner. _This_ day of all days in the year!” And, in spite of Cheviot’s assurance that he wasn’t going to be long, she looked a little wistfully after her lover. “It’s all right,” his queer guide hung back a moment to assure her. “It don’t reely matter as much as you think.” “Oh, it _doesn’t_!” “No, fur he ain’t here.” “Who? The—” “Yep—feller y’ come to see.” She humored him. “You mean the—” “Yep.” “Come along, Father Christmas,” shouted Cheviot, taking the tundra on a run. “Father Christmas! D’ ye hear wot he’s callin’ me?” “Where is he, then?” Hildegarde persisted. “Dead.” “Oh, I’m disappointed to hear that. You _are_ too young for Father Christmas, but I was beginning to hope you might be the hermit.” She took her disappointment so light-heartedly that the odd creature grinned. “Golly, don’t I wish I _wus_ ‘the hermit,’” he muttered, as he scrambled up the tundra after Cheviot. * * * * *