An hour passed. Betty was now at her ease and happier than she had been for
months. Her patient continued to sleep peacefully and dreamlessly. With a

feeling of womanly curiosity Betty looked around the room. Over the rude
mantelpiece were hung a sword, a brace of pistols, and two pictures. These

last interested Betty very much. They were portraits; one of them was a
likeness of a sweet-faced woman who Betty instinctively knew was his mother.

Her eyes lingered tenderly on that face, so like the one lying on the pillow.
The other portrait was of a beautiful girl whose dark, magnetic eyes

challenged Betty. Was this his sister or-- someone else? She could not
restrain a jealous twinge, and she felt annoyed to find herself comparing that

face with her own. She looked no longer at that portrait, but recommenced her
survey of the room. Upon the door hung a broad-brimmed hat with eagle plumes

stuck in the band. A pair of hightopped riding-boots, a saddle, and a bridle
lay on the floor in the corner. The table was covered with Indian pipes,

tobacco pouches, spurs, silk stocks, and other articles.
Suddenly Betty felt that some one was watching her. She turned timidly toward

the bed and became much frightened when she encountered the intense gaze from
a pair of steel-blue eyes. She almost fell from the chair; but presently she

recollected that Alfred had been unconscious for days, and that he would not
know who was watching by his bedside.

"Mother, is that you?" asked Alfred, in a weak, low voice.
"Yes, I am here," answered Betty, remembering the old woman's words about

soothing the sufferer.
"But I thought you were ill."

"I was, but I am better now, and it is you who are ill."
"My head hurts so."

"Let me bathe it for you."
"How long have I been home?"

Betty bathed and cooled his heated brow. He caught and held her hands, looking
wonderingly at her the while.

"Mother, somehow I thought you had died. I must have dreamed it. I am very
happy; but tell me, did a message come for me to-day?"

Betty shook her head, for she could not speak. She saw he was living in the
past, and he was praying for the letter which she would gladly have written

had she but known.
"No message, and it is now so long."

"It will come to-morrow," whispered Betty.
"Now, mother, that is what you always say," said the invalid, as he began to

toss his head wearily to and fro. "Will she never tell me? It is not like her
to keep me in suspense. She was the sweetest, truest, loveliest girl in all

the world. When I get well, mother, I ant going to find out if she loves me."
"I am sure she does. I know she loves you," answered Betty.

"It is very good of you to say that," he went on in his rambling talk. "Some
day I'll bring her to you and we'll make her a queen here in the old home.

I'll be a better son now and not run away from home again. I've given the dear
old mother many a heartache, but that's all past now. The wanderer has come

home. Kiss me good-night, mother."
Betty looked down with tear-blurred eyes on the haggard face. Unconsciously

she had been running her fingers through the fair hair that lay so damp over
his brow. Her pity and tenderness had carried her far beyond herself, and at

the last words she bent her head and kissed him on the lips.
"Who are you? You are not my mother. She is dead," he cried, starting up

wildly, and looking at her with brilliant eyes.
Betty dropped the fan and rose quickly to her feet. What had she done? A

terrible thought had flashed into her mind. Suppose he were not delirious, and
had been deceiving her. Oh! for a hiding-place, or that the floor would

swallow her. Oh! if some one would only come.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Betty ran to the door. To her great relief

Mrs. Martin was coming up.
"You can run home now, there's a dear," said the old lady. "We have several

watchers for to-night. It will not be long now when he will commence to mend,
or else he will die. Poor boy, please God that he gets well. Has he been good?

Did he call for any particular young lady? Never fear, Betty, I'll keep the
secret. He'll never know you were here unless you tell him yourself."

Meanwhile the days had been busy ones for Col. Zane. In anticipation of an
attack from the Indians, the settlers had been fortifying their refuge and

making the block-house as nearly impregnable as possible. Everything that was
movable and was of value they put inside the stockade fence, out of reach of

the destructive redskins. All the horses and cattle were driven into the
inclosure. Wagon-loads of hay, grain and food were stored away in the

block-house.
Never before had there been such excitement on the frontier. Runners from Ft.

Pitt, Short Creek, and other settlements confirmed the rumor that all the
towns along the Ohio were preparing for war. Not since the outbreak of the

Revolution had there been so much confusion and alarm among the pioneers. To
be sure, those on the very verge of the frontier, as at Ft. Henry, had

heretofore little to fear from the British. During most of this time there had
been comparative peace on the western border, excepting those occasional

murders, raids, and massacres perpetrated by the different Indian tribes, and
instigated no doubt by Girty and the British at Detroit. Now all kinds of

rumors were afloat: Washington was defeated; a close alliance between England
and the confederated western tribes had been formed; Girty had British power

and wealth back of him. These and many more alarming reports travelled from
settlement to settlement.

The death of Col. Crawford had been a terrible shock to the whole country. On
the border spread an universal gloom, and the low, sullen mutterings of

revengeful wrath. Crawford had been so prominent a man, so popular, and,
except in his last and fatal expedition, such an efficient leader that his

sudden taking off was almost a national calamity. In fact no one felt it more
keenly than did Washington himself, for Crawford was his esteemed friend.

Col. Zane believed Ft. Henry had been marked by the British and the Indians.
The last runner from Ft. Pitt had informed him that the description of Miller

tallied with that of one of the ten men who had deserted from Ft. Pitt in 1778
with the tories Girth, McKee, and Elliott. Col. Zane was now satisfied that

Miller was an agent of Girty and therefore of the British. So since all the
weaknesses of the Fort, the number of the garrison, and the favorable

conditions for a siege were known to Girty, there was nothing left for Col.
Zane and his men but to make a brave stand.

Jonathan Zane and Major McColloch watched the river. Wetzel had disappeared as
if the earth had swallowed him. Some pioneers said he would never return. But

Col. Zane believed Wetzel would walk into the Fort, as he had done many times
in the last ten years, with full information concerning the doings of the

Indians. However, the days passed and nothing happened. Their work completed,
the settlers waited for the first sign of an enemy. But as none came,

gradually their fears were dispelled and they began to think the alarm had
been a false one.

All this time Alfred Clarke was recovering his health and strength. The day
came when he was able to leave his bed and sit by the window. How glad it made

him feel to look out on the green woods and the broad, winding river; how
sweet to his ears were the songs of the birds; how soothing was the drowsy hum

of the bees in the fragranthoneysuckle by his window. His hold on life had
been slight and life was good. He smiled in pitying derision as he remembered

his recklessness. He had not been in love with life. In his gloomy moods he
had often thought life was hardly worth the living. What sickly sentiment! He

had been on the brink of the grave, but he had been snatched back from the
dark river of Death. It needed but this to show him the joy of breathing, the

glory of loving, the sweetness of living. He resolved that for him there would
be no more drifting, no more purposelessness. If what Wetzel had told him was

true, if he really had not loved in vain, then his cup of happiness was
overflowing. Like a far-off and almost forgotten strain of music some memory

struggled to take definite shape in his mind; but it was so hazy, so vague, so
impalpable, that he could remember nothing clearly.

Isaac Zane and his Indian bride called on Alfred that afternoon.
"Alfred, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you up again," said Isaac,

earnestly, as he wrung Alfred's hand. "Say, but it was a tight squeeze! It has
been a bad time for you."

Nothing could have been more pleasing than Myeerah's shy yet eloquent
greeting. She gave Alfred her little hand and said in her figurative style of

speaking, "Myeerah is happy for you and for others. You are strong like the