nnier borne upon the back of the woman, containing fox and coon-skins,
with little baskets of stained wicker--and the bead-embroidered
mocassins and wampum belts that appear in the hands of the girl--bespeak
a purposed visit to the settlement of Swampville.

True to the custom "of his fathers," the Indian himself carries
nothing--if we except a long rusty gun over his shoulder, and a small
hatchet in his belt: rendering him rather a formidable-looking fellow on
his way to a market.

CHAPTER FOUR.

THE CATASTROPHE OF A KISS.

The log on which the young hunter had seated himself is some paces
distant from the path. He has a slight knowledge of this Indian family,
and simply nods to them as they pass. He does not speak, lest a word
should bring on a conversation--for the avoidance of which he has a
powerful motive.

The Indian makes no halt, but strides silently onward, followed by his
pannier-laden squaw. The girl, however, pauses in her steps--as if
struck by some sudden thought. The action quickly follows the thought;
and, turning out of the path, she approaches the spot where the hunter
is seated.

What wants she with him? Can this be the _she_ he has been expecting
with such impatience? Surely not! And yet the maiden is by no means
ill-looking. In her gleaming oblique eyes there is a certain sweetness
of expression; and a tinge of purple-red, bursting through the bronze of
her cheeks, lends to her countenance a peculiar charm. Add to this,
luxuriant black hair, with a bosom of bold outlines--which the sparse
savage costume but half conceals--and you have a portrait something more
than pretty. Many a time and oft, in the history of backwoods life, has
the heart of the proud pale-face offered sacrifice at such a shrine. Is
this, then, the expected one? No. Her actions answer the question; and
his too. He does not even rise to receive her, but keeps his seat upon
the log--regarding her approach with a glance of indifference, not
unmingled with a slight expression of displeasure.

_Her_ object is presently apparent. A bullet-pouch of white buckskin,
richly worked with porcupine quills, is hanging over her arm. On
arriving before the hunter she holds it out, as if about to present it
to him. One might fancy that such is her intention; and that the pouch
is designed as a _gage d'amour_; but the word "dollar," which
accompanies the offer, precludes the possibility of such a supposition.
It is no