I--I
feel as if I was haunted in this camp. Seldon, is it--is it--"

"No mistake possible," answered the other man, decidedly. "I could swear
to the identity. It is George Rankin!"

"And Holly, the renegade!" added Haydon, in consternation; "and Lord only
knows how many other aliases he has worn. Oh, what a sensation the papers
would make over this if they got hold of it all. My! my! it would be
awful! And that girl, Montana, as she calls herself, she has been clever
to keep it quiet as she has, for--Oh, Lord!"

"What is the matter now? You look fairly sick," said the other,
impatiently. "I didn't fancy you'd grieve much over his death."

"No, it isn't that," said Haydon, huskily. "But that girl--don't you see
she was accused of this? And--well seeing who he is, how do we know--"

He stopped awkwardly, unable to continue with the girl herself so near and
with Seldon's warning glance directed to him.

She leaned against the wall, and apparently had not heard their words.
Seldon's face softened as he looked at her; and, going over, he put his
hand kindly on her hair.

"I am going to be your uncle, now," he said in a caressing tone. "You have
kept up like a soldier under some terrible things here; but we will try to
make things brighter for you now."

She smiled in a dreary way without looking at him. His knowledge of the
terrible things she had endured seemed to her very limited.

"And you will go now with us--with Mr. Haydon--back to your mother's old
home, won't you?" he said, in a persuasive way. "It is not good, you know,
for a little girl not to know any of her relations, or to bear such
shocking grudges," he added, in a lower tone.

But she gave him no answering smile.

"I will go to your house if you will have me," she said. "You and Max are
my friends. I will go only with people I like."

"You know, my dear," said Mr. Haydon, who heard her last words. "You know
I offered you a home in my house until such time as you got to school,
and--and of course, I'll stick to it."

"Though you are a little afraid to risk it, aren't you?" she asked, with
an unpleasant smile. "Haven't you an idea that I might murder you all in
your beds some fine night? You know I belong to a country where they do
such things for pastime. Aren't you afraid?"

"That is a very horrible sort of pleasantry," he answered, and moved away
from the dead face he had been staring at. "I beg you will not indulge in
it, especially when you