They call her Dana by Jennifer Wilde

good-natured face, and there was a humorous curve to his mouth.
    *'What have we here?" he inquired.
    "Please, mister—don't—don't shoot me."
    He frowned. "What was that? I can't understand a word you say."
    "I said please—please don't shoot me."
    "Do you speak French?"
    "I speak perfect French," I said in that language.
    "Perfect is hardly the word, lass. Lx)rd, what a dreadful

    sound—exactly like a strangled duck. Where did you get that abominable accent?"
    "I speak good,'' I protested.
    "Never heard such a deplorable noise," he informed me.
    I was mortally offended. No one had ever criticized my voice before. I knew I sometimes slipped and said "ain't" and used bad grammar, but my voice sounded perfectly all right to me. It certainly didn'l sound like a strangled duck. His voice was deep and melodious, with a faint huskiness that was like a soft caress. He was wearing highly polished brown boots and a pair of snug brown kidskin breeches and, over a full-sleeved, silky white shirt, a marvelous vest of brown and bronze striped brocade. I'd never seen such beautiful clothes on a man before. He must be very rich, I thought, must be a blooming aristocrat. Maybe even a prince or something, even if he was so old. Kindly face notwithstanding, the pistol was still leveled at my heart.
    "You—you gonna shoot me?" I asked.
    "I might. What were you doing going through my bags?"
    "Planning to rob me, were you?"
    "I—I was just—"
    "Might as well confess it, lass."
    "I was just lookin' for something to eat,'' I wailed.
    To my complete horror and amazement, I started bawling then, bawling just like a baby in loud, heaving sobs, my whole body shaking, tears spurting from my eyes and spilling down my cheeks in a veritable flood. The man looked horrified, too, looked very uncomfortable. He jammed the pistol into the waistband of his breeches and sighed miserably and glanced around the clearing as though looking for some means of escaping this wretched exhibition. I fell to my knees, sobbing still, giving lavish vent to all the grief and heartache and fear I had kept locked inside since Ma's death. The man finally cleared his throat, pulled me to my feet and, holding me with one strong arm curled around my waist, dabbed at my face with a soft linen handkerchief he had pulled from the pocket of his vest.
    "There," he said. "There, there—do stop crying."
    "I—Icain't-"
    "Can't, not cain't. Can. Stop it this instant, do you hear me? It's frightfully unbecoming."
    "I—I'm sorry."

    "Ah'm saw-ree. What kind of diction is that? Bears looking into by some phonologist. He'd be intrigued. Lord, what a filthy little swamp rat you are, covered with mud from head to toe. And the smell—I don't believe my nostrils have ever been assailed by such a noxious stench."
    I let out another wrenching sob and more tears spurted and the man let out an exasperated sigh and, taking hold of my shoulders, sat me down on the blankets. He sat down beside me and wrapped an arm around me and pulled my head up against his chest and let me cry myself out. His arm was very heavy, very comforting. He was a total stranger and I didn't even know his name, yet for some reason I felt completely secure. He was a large man, tall and perhaps a trifle overweight, certainly not fat but not overly lean, either. He talked funny and used a lot of words I didn't understand, but I sensed warmth and strong compassion in him.
    "There now," he said when my tears stopped falling. "Do you want to tell me about it? What are you doing in the middle of the swamp at this bizarre hour, and why are you so deplorably filthy?"
    "I fell into a stream, it was all muddy, and there was an alligator on the bank and—I—I think I killed my stepfather.''
    "Indeed?"
    "I hit him hard as I could with an iron skillet, hit him on the head, and then—then I decided to run away."
    "Sounds like a sensible decision to me. Why, pray, did you bash him with the skillet?"
    "He—he was trying