a time I had
trying to puzzle out the way your clothes went on! Well, Mrs. Hoden,
didn't I tell you friends would come? So will the brighter side."

"Yes; I've more faith than I had," replied Mrs. Hoden. "Roger Sampson's
daughter has come to me. There for a while after Jim's death I thought
I'd sink. We have nothing. How could I ever take care of my little ones?
But I'm gaining courage."

"Mrs. Hoden, do not distress yourself any more," said Miss Sampson. "I
shall see you are well cared for. I promise you."

"Miss Sampson, that's fine!" exclaimed Steele, with a ring in his voice.
"It's what I'd have hoped--expected of you..."

It must have been sweet praise to her, for the whiteness of her face
burned in a beautiful blush.

"And it's good of you, too, Miss Langdon, to come," added Steele. "Let
me thank you both. I'm glad I have you girls as allies in part of my
lonely task here. More than glad, for the sake of this good woman and
the little ones. But both of you be careful. Don't stir without Russ.
There's risk. And now I'll be going. Good-by. Mrs. Hoden, I'll drop in
again to-night. Good-by!"

Steele backed to the door, and I slipped out before him.

"Mr. Steele--wait!" called Miss Sampson as he stepped out. He uttered a
little sound like a hiss or a gasp or an intake of breath, I did not
know what; and then the incomprehensible fellow bestowed a kick upon me
that I thought about broke my leg. But I understood and gamely endured
the pain. Then we were looking at Diane Sampson. She was white and
wonderful. She stepped out of the door, close to Steele. She did not see
me; she cared nothing for my presence. All the world would not have
mattered to her then.

"I have wronged you!" she said impulsively.

Looking on, I seemed to see or feel some slow, mighty force gathering in
Steele to meet this ordeal. Then he appeared as always--yet, to me, how
different!

"Miss Sampson, how can you say that?" he returned.

"I believed what my father and George Wright said about you--that
bloody, despicable record! Now I do _not_ believe. I see--I wronged
you."

"You make me very glad when you tell me this. It was hard to have you
think so ill of me. But, Miss Sampson, please don't speak of wronging
me. I am a Ranger, and much said of me is true. My duty is hard on
others--sometimes on those who are innocent, alas! But God knows that
duty is hard, too, on me."

"I did wrong you. In thought--in word. I ordered you from my