ost three years ago,
in the Glen. I have never forgotten that day."

"No, nor I," replied the girl softly. "That is how I knew you. It was
a terrible day to us all in the Glen, my brother going to leave us and
under that dreadful cloud, and you came with the letter that cleared it
all away. Oh, it was like the coming of an angel from heaven, and I have
often thought, Mr. Martin--Dr. Martin you are now, of course--that I
never thanked you as I ought that day. I was thinking of Allan. I have
often wished to do it. I should like to do it now."

"Get at it," cried the doctor with great emphasis, "I need it. It might
help me a bit. I behaved so stupidly this morning. The truth is, I was
completely knocked out, flabbergasted."

"Was that it?" cried Moira with a bright smile. "I thought--" A faint
color tinged her pale cheek and she paused a moment. "But tell me about
the Indian. My brother just made little of it. It is his way with me. He
thinks me just a little girl not to be trusted with things."

"He doesn't know you, then," said the doctor.

She laughed gayly. "And do you?"

"I know you better than that, at least."

"What can you know about me?"

"I know you are to be trusted with that or with anything else that calls
for nerve. Besides, sooner or later you must know about this Indian.
Wait till we cross the bridge and reach the top of the hill yonder, it
will be better going."

The hillside gave them a stiff scramble, for the trail went straight up.
But the sure-footed ponies, scrambling over stones and gravel, reached
the top safely, with no worse result than an obvious disarrangement of
the girl's hair, so that around the Scotch bonnet which she had pinned
on her head the little brown curls were peeping in a way that quite
shook the heart of Dr. Martin.

"Now you look a little more like yourself," he cried, his eyes fastened
upon the curls with unmistakable admiration, "more like the girl I
remember."

"Oh," she said, "it is my bonnet. I put on this old thing for the ride."

"No," said the doctor, "you wore no bonnet that day. It is your face,
your hair, you are not quite--so--so proper."

"My hair!" Her hands went up to her head. "Oh, my silly curls, I
suppose. They are my bane." ("My joy," the doctor nearly had said.) "But
now for the Indian story."

Then the doctor grew grave.

"It is not a pleasant thing to greet a guest with," he said, "but you
must know it and I may as well give it to you. And,