aults in the air--falls right into the jaws of that
hungry savage at the bottom of the tree. Wolf makes his breakfast upon
the squirrel.

This young Diana of the backwoods appears in no way astonished at the
feat she has performed; nor yet Lilian. Doubtless, it is an everyday
deed.

"You must learn to shoot, Lil."

"O sister, for what purpose? You know I have neither the taste for it,
nor the skill that you have."

"The skill you will acquire by practice. It worth knowing how, I can
assure you. Besides it is an accomplishment one might stand in need of
some day. Why, do you know, sister, in the times of the Indians, every
girl understood how to handle a rifle--so father says. True, the
fighting Indians are gone away from here; but what if you were to meet a
great hear in the woods?"

"Surely I should run away from him."

"And surely I shouldn't, Lil. I have never met a bear, but I'd just
like to try one."

"Dear sister, you frighten me. Oh, do not think of such a thing!
Indeed, Marian, I am never happy when you are away in the woods. I am
always afraid of your meeting with some great wild beast, which may
devour you. Tell me, why do you go? I am sure I cannot see what
pleasure you can have in wandering through the woods alone."

"Alone! Perhaps I am not _always alone_."

These words are uttered in a low voice--not loud enough for Lilian to
hear, though she observes the smile that accompanies them.

"You see, sister Lil," continues Marian in a louder tone our tastes
differ. You are young, and like better to read the story-books your
mother left you, and look at the pictures in them. My mother left me no
story-books, nor pictures. She had none; and did not care for them, I
fancy. She was half-Indian, you know; and I suppose I am like her: for
I too, prefer realities to pictures. I love to roam about the woods;
and as for the danger--pooh, pooh--I have no fear of that. I fear
neither bear nor panther, nor any other quadruped. Ha! I have more
fear of a two-legged creature I know of; and I should be in greater
danger of meeting with that dreaded biped by _staying at home_?

The speech appears to give rise to a train of reflections in which there
is bitterness. The heroine of the rifle remains silent while in the act
of reloading; and the tinge of melancholy that pervades her countenance
tells that her thoughts are abstracted. While priming the piece, she is
even _maladroit_ enough to spil