her. Each moment that
he came not deepened her conviction, until at last her companion ceased
his efforts to inspire hope, and accepted her belief as his own. Then,
with the inconsistency of sorrow, she violently repudiated the suspicion
of her father's death, and besought him piteously to seek and bring him
to her side.

It was while obeying this last command that Gentleman Bill encountered
Kentuck, who, after the confusion of the fire was over, was, like
himself, looking for Matheny. When they had consulted together, the
two returned to the place where Anne was awaiting them.

"There is one request I have to make, Kentuck: which is, that you will
not inform Miss Matheny of the enmity of her father toward my father and
myself. It would only distress her. Besides, I should like to befriend
her, poor girl! and I could not, if she looked upon me with her father's
eyes."

"No, 'tain't no use to tell her nothin' about that, sure enough. It's
mighty curus, though, 'bout that fire: not another man got hurt, not a
mite; and Bob Matheny dead! I'll be hanged if it ain't mighty curus. I
hope _ye_ won't hurt the gal, bein' yer the son of yer father."

"Hurt her! I'd----"

Gentleman Bill did not say what he would do: but Kentuck, glancing his
way, caught a perfectly comprehensible expression, and muttered softly
to himself:

"Waal, if that ain't the dog-gondest curusest sarcumstance I ever seed.
Hit, the first pop! Waal, I'm not the feller to come atween 'em ef
thet's ther notion. Far play's my rule."

To Bill, aloud, he said: "Reckon you'll hev' to let _me_ be her uncle
for awhile yet. Yer most too young a feller to offer to take car' of a
gal like that. Bob Matheny's darter has a right to what leetle dust pans
out o' Kentuck's claim. Thet's my go."

Just at this moment Anne, who had been watching for the return of her
friend, seeing two figures approaching, uttered a cry of joy and ran
forward to meet them. The shock of her disappointment at seeing a
stranger in place of her father, caused her nearly to swoon away in
Kentuck's arms.

"Neow, don't ye, honey," he said, soothingly, in his kind Kentucky
dialect. "Sho! don't ye take on. We's all got to die, sometime or
'nother. Don't mind me: I'm yer pap's oldest friend on this coast--hev'
prospected an' dug an' washed up with him sence '49; and a kinder
comrade a man never hed. In course, I consider it my dooty an' privilege
to see that you're took car' ov. The Bar's purt