If the shamefaced uneasy man to whom this remark was addressed could have found words to utter the thought that even in his confusion struggled uppermost in his mind, he would, looking at the bold, dark eyes that questioned him, have denied the fact. But he only stammered, “Yes.” The next moment, however, Miss Portfire had apparently forgotten him and was examining the Princess through her glass. “And what is your name, child?” The Princess, beatified by the eyes and eyeglass, showed all her white teeth at once, and softly scratched her leg. “Bob?” “Bob? What a singular name!” Miss Portfire's host here hastened to explain the origin of the Princess's title. “Then YOU are Bob.” (Eye-glass.) “No, my name is Grey,--John Grey.” And he actually achieved a bow where awkwardness was rather the air of imperfectly recalling a forgotten habit. “Grey?--ah, let me see. Yes, certainly. You are Mr. Grey the recluse, the hermit, the philosopher, and all that sort of thing. Why, certainly; Dr. Jones, our surgeon, has told me all about you. Dear me, how interesting a rencontre! Lived all alone here for seven--was it seven years?--yes, I remember now. Existed quite au naturel, one might say. How odd! Not that I know anything about that sort of thing, you know. I've lived always among people, and am really quite a stranger, I assure you. But honestly, Mr.--I beg your pardon--Mr. Grey, how do you like it?” She had quietly taken his chair and thrown her cloak and hood over its back, and was now thoughtfully removing her gloves. Whatever were the arguments,--and they were doubtless many and profound,--whatever the experience,--and it was doubtless hard and satisfying enough,--by which this unfortunate man had justified his life for the last seven years, somehow they suddenly became trivial and terribly ridiculous before this simple but practical question. “Well, you shall tell me all about it after you have given me something to eat. We will have time enough; Barker cannot find his way back in this fog to-night. Now don't put yourselves to any trouble on my account. Barker will assist?” Barker came forward. Glad to escape the scrutiny of his guest, the hermit gave a few rapid directions to the Princess in her native tongue, and disappeared in the shed. Left a moment alone, Miss Portfire took a quick, half-audible, feminine inventory of the cabin. “Books, guns, skins, ONE chair, ONE bed, no pictures, and no looking-glass!” She took a book from the swinging shelf and resumed her seat by the fire as the Princess re-entered with fresh fuel. But while kneeling on the hearth the Princess chanced to look up and met Miss Portfire's dark eyes over the edge of her book. “Bob!” The Princess showed her teeth. “Listen. Would you like to have fine clothes, rings, and beads like these, to have your hair nicely combed and put up so? Would you?” The Princess nodded violently.