“So! Wa’al, now let’s see about your tent,” and he lumbered up from his boat which he tied to a stump on shore. “Have you got poles?” he asked. “They are over there,” replied Mrs. Bonnell, rather put out at her own inability to recall that her husband had, several times, had her help him erect their tent. “That’s good. Now I’ll show you. I guess between us we can manage to raise the tents.” As he spoke he came face to face with Natalie who had gone for some cold cream to apply to her bruised knuckles. At the sight of breath-of-the-pine-tree the old man started back, and a queer look came over his face. Staring at Natalie he exclaimed in a whisper: “Who—who are you? Have—have you come back to me?” CHAPTER VII A NIGHT ALARM Instinctively the four girls, and Mrs. Bonnell, drew nearer together, shrinking away from the old man who had come up out of his boat to help them erect the tents. On his part he remained staring at Natalie, as though she were some ghost from the past. She paled a little beneath her clear, olive skin, but she did not seem afraid: “Who are you?” repeated the man. “Surely you are not _her_ come back to me after all these years. No, no! It can’t be, and yet you have her face—Speak—tell me!” “What do you mean?” demanded Mrs. Bonnell, gathering her wits that had been a bit scattered by the suddenness of the change of manner in the man. “Who are you?” “Everybody about here knows me,” he answered, not taking his eyes off Natalie, yet advancing no farther toward her. “But she—who is she?” “One of the Camp Fire Girls, to be sure!” broke in Alice, with an attempt at gaiety. “What is this all about? It’s like amateur theatricals.” “He seems to have taken quite a fancy to Natalie,” remarked Mabel, in a low voice. “You can’t blame him,” whispered Marie. “She’s the dearest girl!” “I am afraid you have made a mistake,” said careful Mrs. Bonnell, somewhat stiffly. “None of us ever saw you before, as far as we know. We have never been here before, and, though you may be well known here, we haven’t the honor of your acquaintance. Please don’t annoy my girls.” “I beg pardon,” the man mumbled. “I didn’t go for to make any trouble, that’s sure. I’m Hanson Rossmore—Old Hanson they mostly calls me hereabouts. I ask your pardon, ladies, but she did look wondrous like—well, what’s the use of mentioning it now. It’s past and gone years ago—years ago. Only—with her hair down her back like an Indian maid she fair did remind me of—Oh, well, will you let me help you put up your tents?” he finished rather gruffly, and he seemed ashamed of the emotion he had displayed. Natalie, whose exertion in trying to help with the tents had brought her glorious hair, in the two heavy braids, drooping down her back, looked relieved, and gazed somewhat wonderingly at the old fellow, as, indeed, did the others.