“You don’t find any of that in this country,” Walt laughed.

“Should say not,” the man answered.  “An’ I ain’t here a-lookin’ for it neither.  I’m tryin’ to find my sister.  Mebbe you know where she lives.  Her name’s Johnson, Mrs. William Johnson.”

“You’re not her Klondike brother!” Madge cried, her eyes bright with interest, “about whom we’ve heard so much?”

“Yes’m, that’s me,” he answered modestly.  “My name’s Miller, Skiff Miller.  I just thought I’d s’prise her.”

“You are on the right track then.  Only you’ve come by the footpath.”  Madge stood up to direct him, pointing up the canyon a quarter of a mile.  “You see that blasted redwood!  Take the little trail turning off to the right.  It’s the short cut to her house.  You can’t miss it.”

“Yes’m, thank you, ma’am,” he said.

He made tentative efforts to go, but seemed awkwardly rooted to the spot.  He was gazing at her with an open admiration of which he was quite unconscious, and which was drowning, along with him, in the rising sea of embarrassment in which he floundered.

“We’d like to hear you tell about the Klondike,” Madge said.  “Mayn’t we come over some day while you are at your sister’s!  Or, better yet, won’t you come over and have dinner with us?”

“Yes’m, thank you, ma’am,” he mumbled mechanically.  Then he caught himself up and added:  “I ain’t stoppin’ long.  I got to be pullin’ north again.  I go out on to-night’s train.  You see, I’ve got a mail contract with the government.”

When Madge had said that it was too bad, he made another futile effort to go.  But he could not take his eyes from her face.  He forgot his embarrassment in his admiration, and it was her turn to flush and feel uncomfortable.

It was at this juncture, when Walt had just decided it was time for him to be saying something to relieve the strain, that Wolf, who had been away nosing through the brush, trotted wolf-like into view.

Skiff Miller’s abstraction disappeared.  The pretty woman before him passed out of his field of vision.  He had eyes only for the dog, and a great wonder came into his face.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” he enunciated slowly and solemnly.

He sat down ponderingly on the log, leaving Madge standing.  At the sound of his voice, Wolf’s ears had flattened down, then his mouth had opened in a laugh.  He trotted slowly up to the stranger and first smelled his hands, then licked them with his tongue.

Skiff Miller patted the dog’s head, and slowly and solemnly repeated, “Well, I’ll be hanged!”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said the next moment, “I was just s’prised some, that was all.”

“We’re surprised, too,” she answered lightly.  “We never saw Wolf make up to a stranger before.”

“Is that what you call him—­Wolf?” the man asked.

Madge nodded.  “But I can’t understand his friendliness toward you—­unless it’s because you’re from the Klondike.  He’s a Klondike dog, you know.”