ild without an identity; there was but one name that any one seemed
to know, and that, too, was vague,--Camille.

She grew up with the rest of the waifs; scraps of French and American
civilization thrown together to develop a seemingly inconsistent
miniature world. Mademoiselle Camille was a queen among them, a pretty
little tyrant who ruled the children and dominated the more timid
sisters in charge.

One day an awakening came. When she was fifteen, and almost fully
ripened into a glorious tropical beauty of the type that matures early,
some visitors to the convent were fascinated by her and asked the
Mother Superior to give the girl into their keeping.

Camille fled like a frightened fawn into the yard, and was only
unearthed with some difficulty from behind a group of palms. Sulky and
pouting, she was led into the parlour, picking at her blue pinafore
like a spoiled infant.

"The lady and gentleman wish you to go home with them, Camille," said
the Mother Superior, in the language of the convent. Her voice was
kind and gentle apparently; but the child, accustomed to its various
inflections, detected a steely ring behind its softness, like the
proverbial iron hand in the velvet glove.

"You must understand, madame," continued Mother, in stilted English,
"that we never force children from us. We are ever glad to place them
in comfortable--how you say that?--quarters--maisons--homes--bien! But
we will not make them go if they do not wish."

Camille stole a glance at her would-be guardians, and decided
instantly, impulsively, finally. The woman suited her; but the man!
It was doubtless intuition of the quick, vivacious sort which belonged
to her blood that served her. Untutored in worldly knowledge, she
could not divine the meaning of the pronounced leers and admiration of
her physical charms which gleamed in the man's face, but she knew it
made her feel creepy, and stoutly refused to go. Next day Camille was
summoned from a task to the Mother Superior's parlour. The other girls
gazed with envy upon her as she dashed down the courtyard with
impetuous movement. Camille, they decided crossly, received too much
notice. It was Camille this, Camille that; she was pretty, it was to
be expected. Even Father Ray lingered longer in his blessing when his
hands pressed her silky black hair.

As she entered the parlour, a strange chill swept over the girl. The
room was not an unaccustomed one, for she had swept it