The man was clearly a preacher.  He wore a tall beaver hat, though the day was warm, and a suit of ministerial black.  His collar stood out in points on each side of his chin, and his throat rested on a heavy stock-cravat which went twice around his neck and was tied in a stout square knot under his chin on the second turn.  Under this black choker was a shirt of snowy white, as was his collar, while his coat and trousers looked worn and threadbare.  His face was smooth-shaven, and his hair once black was now turning iron-gray.  He was then about sixty years old.

“A girl,” said I deceitfully, “traveling afoot and alone on the prairie?  Going which way?”

The woman in the carriage now leaned forward and took part in the conversation.  She was Grandma Thorndyke, of whom I have formerly made mention.  Her hair was white, even then.  I think she was a little older than her husband; but if so she never admitted it.  He was a slight small man, but wiry and strong; while she was taller than he and very spare and grave.  She wore steel-bowed spectacles, and looked through you when she spoke.  I am sure that if she had ever done so awful a thing as to have put on a man’s clothes no one would have seen through her disguise from her form, or even by her voice, which was a ringing tenor and was always heard clear and strong carrying the soprano in the First Congregational Church of Monterey Centre after Elder Thorndyke had succeeded in getting it built.

“Her name is Royall,” said Grandma Thorndyke—­I may as well begin calling her that now as ever—­Royall.  When last seen she was walking eastward on this road, where she is subject to all sorts of dangers from wild weather and wild beasts.  A man on horseback named Gowdy, with a negro, came into Independence looking for her this morning after searching everywhere along the road from some place west back to the settlement.  She is sixteen years old.  There wouldn’t be any other girl traveling alone and without provision.  Have you passed such a person?”

“No, I hain’t,” said I. The name “Genevieve” helped me a little in this deceit.

“You haven’t heard any of the people on the road speak of this wandering girl, have you?” asked Elder Thorndyke.

“No,” I answered; “and I guess if any of them had seen her they’d have mentioned it, wouldn’t they?”

“And you haven’t seen any lone girl or woman at all, even at a distance?” inquired Grandma Thorndyke.

“If she passed me,” I said, turning and twisting to keep from telling an outright lie, “it was while I was camped last night.  I camped quite a little ways from the track.”

“She has wandered off upon the trackless prairie!” exclaimed Grandma Thorndyke.  “God help her!”

“He will protect her,” said the elder piously.

“Maybe she met some one going west,” I suggested, rather truthfully, I thought, “that took her in.  She may be going back west with some one.”