“We didn’t know we had any white neighbours,” said the Colonel in his most grand and gracious manner.  “How far away are you, sir?”

“About forty miles above.”

As he answered he happened to be glancing at the Boy, and observed his eagerness cloud slightly.  Hadn’t Nicholas said it was “about forty miles above” that the missionaries lived?

“But to be only forty miles away,” the stranger went on, misinterpreting the fading gladness, “is to be near neighbours in this country.”

“We aren’t quite fixed yet,” said the Colonel, “but you must come in and have some dinner with us.  We can promise you a good fire, anyhow.”

“Thank you.  You have chosen a fine site.”  And the bright eyes with the deep crow’s-feet raying out from the corners scanned the country in so keen and knowing a fashion that the Boy, with hope reviving, ventured: 

“Are—­are you a prospector?”

“No.  I am Father Wills from Holy Cross.”

“Oh!” And the Boy presently caught up with the Indian, and walked on beside him, looking back every now and then to watch the dogs or examine the harness.  The driver spoke English, and answered questions with a tolerable intelligence.  “Are dogs often driven without reins?”

The Indian nodded.

The Colonel, after the stranger had introduced himself, was just a shade more reserved, but seemed determined not to be lacking in hospitality.  O’Flynn was overflowing, or would have been had the Jesuit encouraged him.  He told their story, or, more properly, his own, and how they had been wrecked.

“And so ye’re the Father Superior up there?” says the Irishman, pausing to take breath.

“No.  Our Superior is Father Brachet.  That’s a well-built cabin!”

The dogs halted, though they had at least five hundred yards still to travel before they would reach the well-built cabin.

“Mush!” shouted the Indian.

The dogs cleared the ice-reef, and went spinning along so briskly over the low hummocks that the driver had to run to keep up with them.

The Boy was flying after when the priest, having caught sight of his face, called out:  “Here!  Wait!  Stop a moment!” and hurried forward.

He kicked through the ice-crust, gathered up a handful of snow, and began to rub it on the Boy’s right cheek.

“What in the name of—­” The Boy was drawing back angrily.

“Keep still,” ordered the priest; “your cheek is frozen”; and he applied more snow and more friction.  “You ought to watch one another in such weather as this.  When a man turns dead-white like that, he’s touched with frost-bite.”  After he had restored the circulation:  “There now, don’t go near the fire, or it will begin to hurt.”

“Thank you,” said the Boy, a little shame-faced.  “It’s all right now, I suppose?”

“I think so,” said the priest.  “You’ll lose the skin, and you may be a little sore—­nothing to speak of,” with which he fell back to the Colonel’s side.