er woods to circumvent Margaret. She did not follow the river
as the smaller girl had, but struck into the bush, intending to circle
around and head Margaret off.

She had not pushed her way through the clinging vines and brush for ten
minutes before she heard somebody else in the jungle. She thought it was
the little girl, at first; then she caught sight of a man's hat and knew
that Margaret did not wear a hat at all.

"Goodness! Who can that be?" thought Nan. She was a little nervous about
approaching strange people in the wood; although at this season there
was nothing to apprehend from stragglers, there were so many berry
pickers within call.

Nan did not seek to overtake the man, however, and would have kept on
in her original direction, had she not heard a cry and a splitting crash
toward the river bank. Some accident had happened, and when Nan heard
the scream repeated, she was sure that the voice was that of Margaret.

So she set off directly, on a run, tearing her dress and scratching her
hands and face, but paying no attention to either misfortune. She only
wanted to get to the scene of the accident and lend her aid, if it was
needed.

And it would have been needed if it had not been for the man whose hat
she had seen a few moments before. He made his passage through the bush
much quicker than could Nan, and when the latter reached an opening
where she could see the river, the stranger was just leaping into the
deep pool under the high bank.

It was plain to be seen what had happened. A sycamore overhung the
river and somebody had climbed out upon a small branch to reach a few
half-ripened grapes growing on a vine that ran up the tree.

The branch had split, drooping downward, and the adventurous
grape-gatherer had been cast into the water.

"Oh, Margaret!" screamed Nan, confident that it was the reckless child
that was in peril.

She hurried to the brink of the low bluff, from which the rescuer had
plunged. He had already seized the child (there was an eddy here under
the bank) and was striking out for the shore. Nan saw his wet face, with
the bedraggled hair clinging about it.

It was the awfully scarred face of Injun Pete; but to the excited Nan,
at that moment, it seemed one of the most beautiful faces she had ever
seen!

The Indian reached the bank, clung to a tough root, and lifted up the
gasping Margaret for Nan to reach. The girl took the child and scrambled
up the bank again; by the time