ngular truthfulness he would have frankly
confessed it to Teresa, but the secret was not his own. He contented
himself with saying that he had disposed of it at Indian Spring.

Teresa started, and communicated unconsciously some of her nervousness
to her companion. They gazed in each other's eyes with a troubled
expression.

"Do you think it was wise to sell that particular skin, which might be
identified?" she asked timidly.

Low knitted his arched brows, but felt a strange sense of relief.
"Perhaps not," he said carelessly; "but it's too late now to mend
matters."

That afternoon she wrote several letters, and tore them up. One,
however, she retained, and handed it to Low to post at Indian Spring,
whither he was going. She called his attention to the superscription,
being the same as the previous letter, and added, with affected gayety,
"But if the answer isn't as prompt, perhaps it will be pleasanter than
the last." Her quick feminine eye noticed a little excitement in his
manner and a more studious attention to his dress. Only a few days
before she would not have allowed this to pass without some mischievous
allusion to his mysterious sweetheart; it troubled her greatly now to
find that she could not bring herself to this household pleasantry, and
that her lip trembled and her eye grew moist as he parted from her.

The afternoon passed slowly; he had said he might not return to supper
until late, nevertheless a strange restlessness took possession of
her as the day wore on. She put aside her work, the darning of his
stockings, and rambled aimlessly through the woods. She had wandered she
knew not how far, when she was suddenly seized with the same vague sense
of a foreign presence which she had felt before. Could it be Curson
again, with a word of warning? No! she knew it was not he; so subtle
had her sense become that she even fancied that she detected in the
invisible aura projected by the unknown no significance or relation to
herself or Low, and felt no fear. Nevertheless she deemed it wisest to
seek the protection of her sylvan bower, and hurried swiftly thither.

But not so quickly nor directly that she did not once or twice pause in
her flight to examine the new-comer from behind a friendly trunk. He was
a stranger--a young fellow with a brown mustache, wearing heavy Mexican
spurs in his riding-boots, whose tinkling he apparently did not care to
conceal. He had perceived her, and was evidently pursuing