ther 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!"

CHAPTER XV

ONE MORE WHIRL

Mr. Toomey folded his comfortable bathrobe over his new pajamas and tied
the silken cord and tassel, remarking casually:

"I think we'll have breakfast here this morning."

The flowing sleeve of Mrs. Toomey's pink silk negligee fell away from
her bare arm as she stood arranging her hair before the wide-topped
dresser of Circassian walnut that looked so well against a background of
pale gray wall paper with a delicate pink border.

"They charge extra," she reminded him.

Toomey was already at the telephone.

"Whole ones? Certainly--and Floridas--be particular. Eggs--soft to
medium. Toast for two, without butter. And coffee? Of course, coffee.
Send a paper with it, will you?"

As he hung up the receiver, "This is our last breakfast on earth, Old
Dear--we're going home to-morrow."

Mr. Toomey repaired to the adjoining bathroom with its immaculate
porcelain and tiling, where he inspected his chin critically in the
shaving mirror and commented upon the rapid growth of his beard, which
he declared became tropical in a temperate climate.

"Just to be warm and not have to carry ashes--it's heavenly!"
ecstatically sighed Mrs. Toomey.

"Forget it!" laconically. "What makes 'em so slow with that order?" Mr.
Toomey lighted a gold-tipped cigarette and paced the floor impatiently.

Mrs. Toomey could not entirely rid herself of the notion that she was
dreaming. A lace petticoat hanging over the back of a chair and a
brocaded pink corset over another contributed to the illusion. She could
not yet believe they were hers, any more than was the twenty-dollar
creation in the hat box on the shelf in the closet.

During their week's stay in Chicago Mrs. Toomey had gone about mostl