tter. Him goin' to find my mamma. I dess him dit me somefin to eat."

Frank caught her up in his arms.

"Yes, dear," he laughed, his heart swelling with a feeling that
convinced him he would lay down his life in defense of her, if needs be.
"I will find you something to eat as soon as possible, and I will take
you to your mother."

"Dat's all wight. I ain't doin' to cwy. You don't like little dirls
we'en they cwy, does you?"

"In your case, I do not think crying would change my feelings. Little
girls have to cry sometimes."

"I dess dat's wight," said Fay, very soberly.

Frank surrendered his rifle to Barney, who insisted on taking the
camera also, and then, with the child in his arms, followed the Irish
lad on the return tramp to camp.

It proved to be a long, tiresome trudge, and the sun was setting when
the boys came in sight of a white tent that was pitched near a spring of
cool water and a growth of pines down in a pretty valley.

Once or twice Fay had murmured that she was "so hundry," but when the
camp was sighted, she was asleep in Frank's arms, her head of tangled
golden curls lying on his shoulder.

A fire was blazing in front of the tent, sending a thin column of smoke
straight up into the still air.

Near the fire, with a pipe in his mouth, was sitting a grizzled old man,
whose appearance indicated that he was a veteran of the mountains and
plains.

This was Roxy Jules, generally known as "Old Rocks." He was one of the
professional guides who make a business of taking parties of tourists
through the park and showing them its wonders.

Between two trees a hammock was strung, and another man, a little fellow
with fiery-red hair and whiskers, was reclining. Gold-bowed spectacles
were perched on his nose, and he was studying a book.

All at once Old Rocks gave a queer kind of a grunt. As it did not arouse
the man in the hammock, he grunted again. That not proving effectual, he
growled:

"Wa-al, I wonders whut kind o' game them yar kids hev struck now?"

"Eh?" exclaimed the little man. "Did you speak to me? My name is Scotch,
as you very well know--Professor Horace Scotch."

"Wa-al," drawled Old Rocks, with a sly grin, "I reckons I has heard them
yar boys call yer Hot Scotch enough to know whut yer handle is."

"Those boys are very disrespectful--very! They should be called to
account. I object to such familiarity from others, sir--I distinctly
object."

Old Rocks grunted derisively, having