s also, and
gently touched her arm with his hard, rough hand.

"I ain't no stranger, miss--I ain't no stranger," he began, in a voice
which was a curious blend of his ordinary harsh tones with a soft and
quivering sympathy. "We're none of us strangers to you, miss, leastways
me."

He paused uneasily, half hoping she would move or speak; but only the
sound of a choked sob came to him, and he shivered. It was the moment
when the curious crowd outside glanced into the silent room.

[Illustration: "I AIN'T NO STRANGER, MISS." [_Page 100._]

"Cold-blood Slaughter they calls me, miss," he went on presently, "for
they say I ain't a feeling man; but it's only a name, miss. I've come
here now, miss--_here_--to tell you, first from all of us, second
from--me. We ain't no strangers, miss. We're all your friends,
and--we--we'll see you through."

Again he paused, looking up timidly at the mass of golden hair which was
gently trembling as the girl's emotions chased one another through her
heart and being; he saw that, and beyond it, just over it, the still,
white features of the dead man's face--and he lowered his glance again.

"Maybe my story'll help you, miss, for no one's ever heard it yet. I
could only tell it--to you, and--here--now. They didn't call me
Cold-blood Slaughter once; I was a soft chap then, and I loved a woman
who loved me, till another came and lied, and I--I was Cold-blood
Slaughter then. It was all a lie--God forgive the teller, for I
can't--but the woman I loved believed it, and I went away--came here and
took up the Three-mile, and kept it to myself, till--till _she_ came
here--she--the woman I loved--and she came as another man's wife."

His voice was growing hard in spite of the quiver that was in it; but
the quiver was due to another emotion than that which had caused it at
first, and he, realizing it, checked his utterance till the growing
anger was subdued.

"She saw me once, miss, and turned from me, and I--I never saw her
again. I kept away. Then she died, miss, and left a daughter behind,
_her_ daughter, just like her, more like her the more she grew, and
then--then--the father died. I thought he never knew till he--told
me--told me she'd told him she knew it was a lie, and asked me to be
good to her daughter, for her sake, and--and--I've come."

He ceased, but did not dare to look up, lest he should meet her eyes as
she raised her head to answer him. He was kneeling, stiffly, sitting
back