"Why, no ye aint!" he exclaimed, quite tremulously. "Lord, no! Ye cayn't be. Ye haint no color. What--what's the trouble, Lou--Lord! I was gwine to call ye Louisianny, an'--she aint yere, Louisianny aint." He ended with a nervous laugh. "I'm used to takin' a heap o' care on her," he said. "I've lost ten on 'em, an' she's all that's left me, an'--an' I think a heap on her. I--I wish she was yere. Ye musn't git sick, ma'am." The girl got up hurriedly. "I am not sick, really," she said. "The thunder--I have a little headache. I will go out on to the porch. It's clearing up now. The fresh air will do me good." The old man rose, too, with rather a flurried manner. "If Louisianny was yere," he faltered, "she could give ye something to help ye. Camphire now--sperrits of camphire--let me git ye some." "No--no," said the girl. "No, thank you." And she slipped out of the door and was gone. Mr. Rogers sat down again with a sigh. "I wish she'd let me git her some," he said, wistfully. "I know how it is with young critters like that. They're dele-cate," anxiously. "Lord, they're dele-cate. They'd oughter hev' their mothers round 'em. I know how it is with Louisianny." A cloud seemed to settle upon him. He rubbed his grizzled chin with his hand again and again, glancing at the open door as he did it. It was evident that his heart was outside with the girl who was like "Louisianny." CHAPTER VIII. "NOTHING HAS HURT YOU." The storm was quite over, and the sun was setting in flames of gold when the meal was ended and they went out on the porch again. Mr. Rogers had scarcely recovered himself, but he had made an effort to do so, and had so far succeeded as to begin to describe the nature of the one novel he had read. Still, he had rubbed his chin and kept his eye uneasily on the door all the time he had been talking. "It was about a Frenchman," he said, seriously, "an' his name was--Frankoyse--F-r-a-n-c-o-i-s, Frankoyse. Thet thar's a French name, aint it? Me an' Ianthy 'lowed it was common to the country. It don't belong yere, Frankoyse don't, an' it's got a furrin sound." "It--yes, it is a French name," assented Ferrol. A few minutes afterward they went out. Louisiana stood at the end of the porch, leaning against a wooden pillar and twisting an arm around it. "Are ye better?" Mr. Rogers asked. "I am goin' to 'tend to my stock, an' if ye aint, mebbe the camphire--sperrits of camphire----" "I don't need it," she answered. "I am quite well." So he went away and left them, promising to return shortly and "gear up their critters" for them that they might go on their way.