an unknown chord in her heart. When finally she turned to answer him a

beautiful light shone in her eyes, a light that shines not on land or sea--the
light of woman's hope.

"Mr. Clarke," she said, and her voice was soft and low, "I am only a girl, but
I can understand. You are unhappy. Try to rise above it. Who knows what will

befall this little settlement? It may be swept away by the savages, and it may
grow to be a mighty city. It must take that chance. So must you, so must we

all take chances. You are here. Find your work and do it cheerfully" target="_blank" title="ad.高兴地，愉快地">cheerfully, honestly,
and let the future take care of itself And let me say--do not be

offended--beware of idleness and drink. They are as great a danger--nay,
greater than the Indians."

"Miss Zane, if you were to ask me not to drink I would never touch a drop
again," said Alfred, earnestly.

"I did not ask that," answered Betty, flushing slightly. "But I shall remember
it as a promise and some day I may ask it of you."

He looked wonderingly at the girl beside him. He had spent most of his life
among educated and cultured people. He had passed several years in the

backwoods. But with all his experience with people he had to confess that this
young woman was as a revelation to him. She could ride like an Indian and

shoot like a hunter. He had heard that she could run almost as swiftly as her
brothers. Evidently she feared nothing, for he had just seen an example of her

courage in a deed that had tried even his own nerve, and, withal, she was a
bright, happy girl, earnest and true, possessing all the softer graces of his

sisters, and that exquisite touch of femininedelicacy and refinement which
appeals more to men than any other virtue.

"Have you not met Mr. Miller before he came here from Fort Pitt?" asked Betty.
"Why do you ask?"

"I think he mentioned something of the kind."
"What else did he say?"

"Why--Mr. Clarke, I hardly remember."
"I see," said Alfred, his face darkening. "He has talked about me. I do not

care what he said. I knew him at Fort Pitt, and we had trouble there. I
venture to say he has told no one about it. He certainly would not shine in

the story. But I am not a tattler."
"It is not very difficult to see that you do not like him. Jonathan does not,

either. He says Mr. Miller was friendly with McKee, and the notorious Simon
Girty, the soldiers who deserted from Fort Pitt and went to the Indians. The

girls like him however."
"Usually if a man is good looking and pleasant that is enough for the girls. I

noticed that he paid you a great deal of attention at the dance. He danced
three times with you."

"Did he? How observing you are," said Betty, giving him a little sidelong
glance. "Well, he is very agreeable, and he dances better than many of the

young men."
"I wonder if Wetzel got the turkey. I have heard no more shots," said Alfred,

showing plainly that he wished to change the subject.
"Oh, look there! Quick!" exclaimed Betty, pointing toward the hillside.

He looked in the direction indicated and saw a doe and a spotted fawn wading
into the shallow water. The mother stood motionless" target="_blank" title="a.静止的；固定的">motionless a moment, with head erect

and long ears extended. Then she drooped her graceful head and drank thirstily
of the cool water. The fawn splashed playfully round while its mother was

drinking. It would dash a few paces into the stream and then look back to see
if its mother approved. Evidently she did not, for she would stop her drinking

and call the fawn back to her side with a soft, crooning noise. Suddenly she
raised her head, the long ears shot up, and she seemed to sniff the air. She

waded through the deeper water to get round a rocky bluff which ran out into
the creek. Then she turned and called the little one. The fawn waded until the

water reached its knees, then stopped and uttered piteous little bleats.
Encouraged by the soft crooning it plunged into the deep water and with great

splashing and floundering managed to swim the short distance. Its slender legs
shook as it staggered up the bank. Exhausted or frightened, it shrank close to

its mother. Together they disappeared in the willows which fringed the side of
the hill.

"Was not that little fellow cute? I have had several fawns, but have never had
the heart to keep them," said Betty. Then, as Alfred made no motion to speak,

she continued:
"You do not seem very talkative."

"I have nothing to say. You will think me dull. The fact is when I feel
deepest I am least able to express myself."

"I will read to you." said Betty taking up the book. He lay back against the
grassy bank and gazed dreamily at the many hued trees on the little hillside;

at the bare rugged sides of McColloch's Rock which frowned down upon them. A
silver-breasted eagle sailed slowly round and round in the blue sky, far above

the bluff. Alfred wondered what mysterious power sustained that solitary bird
as he floated high in the air without perceptiblemovement of his broad wings.

He envied the king of birds his reign over that illimitable space, his
far-reaching vision, and his freedom. Round and round the eagle soared, higher

and higher, with each perfect circle, and at last, for an instant poising as
lightly as if he were about to perch on his lonely crag, he arched his wings

and swooped down through the air with the swiftness of a falling arrow.
Betty's low voice, the water rushing so musically over the falls, the great

yellow leaves falling into the pool, the gentle breezestirring the clusters
of goldenrod--all came softly to Alfred as he lay there with half closed eyes.

The time slipped swiftly by as only such time can.
"I fear the melancholy spirit of the day has prevailed upon you," said Betty,

half wistfully. "You did not know I had stopped reading, and I do not believe
you heard my favorite poem. I have tried to give you a pleasant afternoon and

have failed."
"No, no," said Alfred, looking at her with a blue flame in his eyes. "The

afternoon has been perfect. I have forgotten my role, and have allowed you to
see my real self, something I have tried to hide from all."

"And are you always sad when you are sincere?"
"Not always. But I am often sad. Is it any wonder? Is not all nature sad?

Listen! There is the song of the oriole. Breaking in on the stillness it is
mournful. The breeze is sad, the brook is sad, this dying Indian summer day is

sad. Life itself is sad."
"Oh, no. Life is beautiful."

"You are a child," said he, with a thrill in his deep voice "I hope you may
always be as you are to-day, in heart, at least."

"It grows late. See, the shadows are falling. We must go."
"You know I am going away to-morrow. I don't want to go. Perhaps that is why I

have been such poor company today. I have a presentiment of evil I am afraid I
may never come back."

"I am sorry you must go."
"Do you really mean that?" asked Alfred, earnestly, bending toward her "You

know it is a very dangerous undertaking. Would you care if I never returned?"
She looked up and their eyes met. She had raised her head haughtily, as if

questioning his right to speak to her in that manner, but as she saw the
unspoken appeal in his eyes her own wavered and fell while a warm color crept

into her cheek.
"Yes, I would be sorry," she said, gravely. Then, after a moment: "You must

portage the canoe round the falls, and from there we can paddle back to the
path."

The return trip made, they approached the house. As they turned the corner
they saw Colonel Zane standing at the door talking to Wetzel.

They saw that the Colonel looked pale and distressed, and the face of the
hunter was dark and gloomy.

"Lew, did you get my turkey?" said Betty, after a moment of hesitation. A
nameless fear filled her breast.

For answer Wetzel threw back the flaps of his coat and there at his belt hung
a small tuft of black hair. Betty knew at once it was the scalp-lock of an

Indian. Her face turned white and she placed a hand on the hunter's arm.
"What do you mean? That is an Indian's scalp. Lew, you look so strange. Tell

me, is it because we went off in the canoe and have been in danger?"
"Betty, Isaac has been captured again," said the Colonel.

"Oh, no, no, no," cried Betty in agonized tones, and wringing her hands. Then,
excitedly, "Something can be done; you must pursue them. Oh, Lew, Mr. Clarke,

cannot you rescue him? They have not had time to go far."
"Isaac went to the chestnut grove this morning. If he had stayed there he

would not have been captured. But he went far into the Black Forest. The
turkey call we heard across the creek was made by a Wyandot concealed in the