“I ’ve come to live here,” announced the girl, sullenly.  “That is, if I like it.”

The woman continued to gaze at her, as if tempted to laugh outright; then the pleasant blue eyes hardened as their vision swept beyond toward Hampton.

“It is extremely kind of you, I ’m sure,” she said at last.  “Why is it I am to be thus honored?”

The girl backed partially off the doorstep, her hair flapping in the wind, her cheeks flushed.

“Oh, you need n’t put on so much style about it,” she blurted out.  “You ’re Mrs. Herndon, ain’t you?  Well, then, this is the place where I was sent; but I reckon you ain’t no more particular about it than I am.  There’s others.”

“Who sent you to me?” and Mrs. Herndon came forth into the sunshine.

“The preacher.”

“Oh, Mr. Wynkoop; then you must be the homeless girl whom Lieutenant Brant brought in the other day.  Why did you not say so at first?  You may come in, my child.”

There was a sympathetic tenderness apparent now in the tones of her voice, which the girl was swift to perceive and respond to, yet she held back, her independence unshaken.  With the quick intuition of a woman, Mrs. Herndon bent down, placing one hand on the defiant shoulder.

“I did not understand, at first, my dear,” she said, soothingly, “or I should never have spoken as I did.  Some very strange callers come here.  But you are truly welcome.  I had a daughter once; she must have been nearly your age when God took her.  Won’t you come in?”

While thus speaking she never once glanced toward the man standing in silence beyond, yet as the two passed through the doorway together he followed, unasked.  Once within the plainly furnished room, and with her arm about the girl’s waist, the lines about her mouth hardened.  “I do not recall extending my invitation to you,” she said, coldly.

He remained standing, hat in hand, his face shadowed, his eyes picturing deep perplexity.

“For the intrusion I offer my apology,” he replied, humbly; “but you see I—­I feel responsible for this young woman.  She—­sort of fell to my care when none of her own people were left to look after her.  I only came to show her the way, and to say that I stand ready to pay you well to see to her a bit, and show her how to get hold of the right things.”

“Indeed!” and Mrs. Herndon’s voice was not altogether pleasant.  “I understood she was entirely alone and friendless.  Are you that man who brought her out of the canyon?”

Hampton bowed as though half ashamed of acknowledging the act.

“Oh! then I know who you are,” she continued, unhesitatingly.  “You are a gambler and a bar-room rough.  I won’t touch a penny of your money.  I told Mr. Wynkoop that I shouldn’t, but that I would endeavor to do my Christian duty by this poor girl.  He was to bring her here himself, and keep you away.”