e any adventures yourself with these Indians?"
asked Imogen, deeply excited over this veracious resume of life in
modern New York.

"Oh, dear, yes--frequently."

"Do tell me some of yours. This is so very interesting. Lionel never has
said a word about the--Tallamies, did you call them?"

"Tammanies. Perhaps not; Colorado is so far off, you know. They have
Piutes there,--a different tribe entirely, and much less deleterious to
civilization."

"How sad. But about the adventures?"

"Oh, yes--well, I'll tell you of one; in fact it is the only really
exciting experience I ever had with the New York Indians. It was two
years ago; I had just come out, and it was my birthday, and papa said I
might ride his new mustang, by way of a celebration. So we started, my
brother and I, for a long country gallop.

"We were just on the other side of Central Park, barely out of the city,
you see, when a sudden blood-curdling yell filled the air. We were
horror-struck, for we knew at once what it must be,--the war-cry of the
savages. We turned of course and galloped for our lives, but the Indians
were between us and the gates. We could see their terrible faces
streaked with war-paint, and the tomahawks at their girdles, and we
felt that all hope was over. I caught hold of papa's lasso, which was
looped round the saddle, and cocked my revolving rifle--all the New York
girls wear revolving rifles strapped round their waists," continued Miss
Opdyke, coolly, interrogating Imogen with her eyes as she spoke for
signs of disbelief, but finding none--"and I resolved to sell my life
and scalp as dearly as possible. Just then, when all seemed lost, we
heard a shout which sounded like music to our ears. A company of mounted
Rangers were galloping out from the city. They had seen our peril from
one of the watch-towers, and had hurried to our rescue."

"How fortunate!" said Imogen, drawing a long breath. "Well, go on--do go
on."

"There is little more to tell," said Miss Opdyke, controlling with
difficulty her inclination to laugh. "The Head Ranger attacked the
Tammany chief, whose name was Day Vidbehill,--a queer name, isn't
it?--and slew him after a bloody conflict. He gave me his brush, I mean
his scalp-lock, afterward, and it now adorns--" Here her amusement
became ungovernable, and she went into fits of laughter, which Imogen's
astonished look only served to increase.

"Oh!" she cried, between her paroxysms, "you believed it all! it is t