Bates mounted the slope as a man may mount stairs—­two steps at a time.  Had he seen the strangers, as the saying is, dropping from the clouds, he could hardly have been more surprised than he was to see civilised people had reached his place otherwise than by the lake, for the rugged hills afforded nothing but a much longer and more arduous way to any settlement within reach.  When he got up, however, he saw that these men carried with them implements of camp-life and also surveying instruments, by which he judged, and rightly, that his guests were ranging the lonely hills upon some tour of official survey.

That the travellers were his guests neither he nor they had the slightest doubt.  They had set down their traps close to his door, and, in the calm confidence that it would soon be hospitably opened by rightful hands, they had made no attempt to open it for themselves.  There were eight men in the party, two of whom, apparently its more important members, sauntered to meet Bates, with pipes in their mouths.  These told him what district they were surveying, by what track they had just come over the hill, where they had camped the past night, where they wanted to get to by nightfall.  They remarked on the situation of his house and the extent of his land.  They said to him, in fact, more than was immediately necessary, but not more than was pleasant for him to hear or for them to tell.  It is a very taciturn man who, meeting a stranger in a wilderness, does not treat him with more or less of friendly loquacity.

Under the right circumstances Bates was a genial man.  He liked the look of these men; he liked the tone of their talk; and had he liked them much less, the rarity of the occasion and the fact that he was their host would have expanded his spirits.  He asked astute questions about the region they had traversed, and, as they talked, he motioned them towards the house.  He had it distinctly in his mind that he was glad they had come across his place, and that he would give them a hot breakfast; but he did not say so in words—­just as they had not troubled to begin their conversation with him by formal greetings.

The house door was still shut; there was still no smoke from the chimney, although it was now full three hours since Bates had left the place.  Saying that he would see if the women were up, he went alone into the house.  The living-room was deserted, and, passing through the inner door, which was open, he saw his aunt, who, according to custom was neatly dressed, sitting on the foot of Sissy’s empty bed.  The old woman was evidently cold, and frightened at the unusual sounds outside; greatly fretted, she held the girl’s night-cap in her hand, and the moment he appeared demanded of him where Sissy was, for she must have her breakfast.  The girl he did not see.

The dog had followed him.  He looked up and wagged his tail; he made no sign of feeling concern that the girl was not there.  Bates could have cursed his dumbness; he would fain have asked where she had gone.  The dog probably knew, but as for Bates, he not only did not know, but no conjecture rose in his mind as to her probable whereabouts.