Then somewhere a querulous voice was saying: "I told you the picture would be overexposed when you were takin' it. You'll never listen to me." A deeper voice answered: "The light was stronger than I thought; but, anyway, it's a humdinger of a negative." Then, sharply, "Sh-ss-sh! What was that, Honey?" A silence fell instantly. "Honey!" Kate had a notion that she smiled, though her white face did not alter its expression. Her tongue moved thickly, "I like that name, Hughie." Her collie whimpered and scratched again at the door of the wagon. The traveling photographer pushed it open and the animal sprang inside, leaping from one to the other in his gratitude. "It's a sheep dog!" the man cried in consternation. "There's a herder lost somewhere." "Can we do anything--such a night?" the old woman asked doubtfully. "Can anyone be alive in it?" "Light the lantern--quick! Maybe I can track the dog back before the snow fills them. He might be down within a stone's throw of the wagon." Snatching the lantern from her hand he admonished his wife as he stepped out into the wilderness: "You-all keep hollerin' so I can hear you. I kin git lost mighty easy." The light became a blur almost instantly, but he was not fifty feet from the wagon when he shouted: "I got him!" Then--his voice shrilled in astonishment--"Sufferin' Saints! It's a woman!" CHAPTER XV ONE MORE WHIRL Mr. Toomey folded his comfortable bathrobe over his new pajamas and tied the silken cord and tassel, remarking casually: "I think we'll have breakfast here this morning." The flowing sleeve of Mrs. Toomey's pink silk negligee fell away from her bare arm as she stood arranging her hair before the wide-topped dresser of Circassian walnut that looked so well against a background of pale gray wall paper with a delicate pink border. "They charge extra," she reminded him. Toomey was already at the telephone. "Whole ones? Certainly--and Floridas--be particular. Eggs--soft to medium. Toast for two, without butter. And coffee? Of course, coffee. Send a paper with it, will you?" As he hung up the receiver, "This is our last breakfast on earth, Old Dear--we're going home to-morrow." Mr. Toomey repaired to the adjoining bathroom with its immaculate porcelain and tiling, where he inspected his chin critically in the shaving mirror and commented upon the rapid growth of his beard, which he declared became tropical in a temperate climate. "Just to be warm and not have to carry ashes--it's heavenly!" ecstatically sighed Mrs. Toomey. "Forget it!" laconically. "What makes 'em so slow with that order?" Mr. Toomey lighted a gold-tipped cigarette and paced the floor impatiently.