never believe but that I'm in love with this young squaw: she's
been jealous o' her already."

But the reflection passes; and with it, for an instant, the remembrance
of "Marian." The sweetest smelling flower is that which is nearest--so
sings the honey-bee. Human blood cannot bear the proximity of those
pretty lips; and the kindness of the Indian maiden must be recompensed
by a kiss. She makes no resistance. She utters no cry. Their lips
meet; but the kiss is interrupted ere it can be achieved. The bark of a
dog--followed by a half-suppressed scream in a female voice--causes the
interruption. The hunter starts back, looking aghast. The Indian
exhibits only surprise. Both together glance across the glade. Marian
Holt is standing upon its opposite edge!

Wingrove's cheek has turned red. Fear and shame are depicted upon his
face. In his confusion he pushes the Indian aside--more rudely than
gently. "Go!" he exclaims in an under voice. "For God's sake go!--you
have ruined me!"

The girl obeys the request and gesture--both sufficiently rude after
such sweet complaisance. She obeys, however; and moves off from the
spot--not without reproach in her glance, and reluctance in her steps.
Before reaching the path she pauses, turns in her track, and glides
swiftly back towards the hunter.

Wingrove stands astonished--half afrighted. Before he can recover
himself, or divine her intent, the Indian is once more by his side. She
snatches the pouch from his shoulders--the place where her own hands had
suspended it--then flinging the silver coin at his feet, and uttering in
a loud angry tone the words, "False pale-face!" she turns from the spot,
and glides rapidly away. In another moment she has entered the
forest-path, and is lost to the sight.

The scene has been short--of only a few seconds' duration. Marian has
not moved since the moment she uttered that wild, half-suppressed
scream. She stands silent and transfixed, as if its utterance had
deprived her of speech and motion. Her fine form picturesquely draped
with bodice and skirt; the moccasin buskins upon her feet; the coiled
coronet of shining hair surmounting her head; the rifle in her hand,
resting on its butt, as it had been dashed mechanically down; the huge
gaunt dog by her side--all these outlined upon the green background of
the forest leaves, impart to the maiden an appearance at once majestic
and imposing. Standing thus immobile, she suggests