her arms outstretched, the briars of a wild-rose bush tearing her cheek as she lay face downward in the center of it. But she did not know it—she was comfortable, very comfortable, and she could as well lie there a little while—a little while—
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!"
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