For a long time Angie lay sleepless upon her fragrant bed, recalling the waif's strange story and trying to grasp the depth and breadth of her life at Tim's Place; also to surmise, if possible, how serious a taint of evil she had inherited. That her father was vile beyond compare seemed positive; that her mother might have been scarce better was probable. No mention, thus far, had been made of her; and so Angie reflected upon this pitiful child's ancestry and what manner of heritage she had been blessed or cursed with. Some of her attributes awoke Angie's admiration. She had shown utter abhorrence of this brutal sale of herself, a marvellous courage in endeavoring to escape it. She seemed grateful for what had been done for her, and a partial realization of her own unfitness for association with refined people. Her speech was no worse than might be expected from her life at Tim's Place. Doubtless, she was unable to read or write. And so Angie lay, considering all the pros and cons of the situation and of this girl's life. There was also another side to it all, the humane one. They were on their way out of the wilderness, for a business visit to the nearest settlement, intending to return to the woods in a few days--and what was to be done with this child of misfortune? Most assuredly they must protect her for the present. But was there any one to whom she could be turned over and cared for? It seemed possible this brutal buyer of her would follow her out of the woods, to abduct her if found, and then the moral side of this episode with all its abominable possibilities occurred to Angie, who was, above all, unselfish and noble-hearted. Vice, crime, and immorality were horrible to her. Here was a self-evident duty thrusting itself upon her, and how to meet it with justice to herself, her husband, and her own conscience, was a problem. Thus dwelling upon this complex situation, she fell asleep. The first faint light of morning was stealing into the tent when Angie felt her companion stir. She had, exhausted as she doubtless was, fallen asleep almost the moment she lay down; but now she was evidently awake. Curious to note what she would do, Angie remained with closed eyes and motionless. From the corner of the tent where she had curled up the night before, the girl now cautiously crept toward the elder woman. Inch by inch, upon the bed of boughs, she moved nearer, until Angie, watching with half-open eyes, saw her head lowered, and felt two soft warm lips touch her hand. It was a trifle. It was no more than the act of a cat who rubs herself against her mistress or a dog who licks his master's hand, and yet it settled once for all that waif's fate and Angie's indecision. CHAPTER III Women are like grasshoppers--ye kin never tell which way they're goin' to jump.--Old Cy Walker.