Little by little the watch set over her had grown less strict. She had made no attempt to get away, and Betty and her son had come to count her in as a part of their company. They could not, indeed, imagine what would become of her should she leave them. Sour and bitter as their natures were, they really could not help liking this winsome girl, whose voice and manner seemed to speak to them day by day of better things than they had ever known. And liking her, they no doubt felt that she liked them. At least, as they traveled together, or made camp in some wild, beautiful mountain cove, or worked side by side around the camp fire, she gave no sign that was not friendly. Even Tige had come to watch her in a spirit of defense rather than of attack. So one night when they had been sitting late before the camp fire, and she had gone into the tent to go to bed, she crept beneath the canvas at the rear and stole away through the woods. If it had not been for the crackling of the camp fire, she might have been overheard; and if it had not been for the growing weakness which kept poor weary Bet drowsing sleepily there before the blaze, her escape would soon have been discovered. But as it was, not even the alert Tige had a hint of her going. He lay snoring and nuzzling before the fire, dimly aware that his master was near, and asking for no greater happiness. And that master sat there beside him, his head in his hands, thinking thoughts that for him were strange indeed. He had come back from a life of wandering and self-indulgence to prey upon his mother. She was a clever one—so he put it—and if she wanted him to keep out of mischief, let her find some way to care for him! But now, after these weeks in the company of the young girl who looked out at life with kind and trusting eyes, and who was polite even to the woman who kept her prisoner, Rafe began to see things in a different light. He had meant to torment that girl, and he had thought that he would have pleasure in doing it. But he had, someway, not been able to carry out his intention. She had seen through him—had believed in his good nature in spite of everything. And he knew now that he wanted to be the way she thought him. He wanted her to think of him as something besides a bully and jailer. He wished his mother were different from what she was; wished from the bottom of his heart that the two of them were something better than wandering vagabonds. If they had lived in a proper house, if his father had not left them, if he could have had a sister like Azalea, he would have made a very different fellow of himself from what he was.