the idea of some
rival huntress, whom Diana, from jealousy, has suddenly transformed into
stone. But her countenance betrays that she is no statue. The colour
of her cheeks--alternately flushing red and pale--and the indignant
flash of that fiery eye, tell you that you look upon a living woman--one
who breathes and burns under the influence of a terrible emotion.

Wingrove is half frantic. He scarce knows what to say, or what to do.
In his confusion he advances towards the young girl, calling her by
name; but before he has half crossed the glade, her words fall upon his
ear, causing him to hesitate and falter in his steps. "Frank Wingrove!"
she cries, "come not near me. Your road lies the other way. Go! follow
your Indian damsel. You will find her at Swampville, no doubt, selling
her cheap kisses to triflers like yourself. Traitor! we meet no more!"

Without waiting for a reply, or even to note the effect of her words,
Marian Holt steps back into the forest, and disappears. The young
hunter is too stupefied to follow. With "false pale-face" ringing in
one ear, and "traitor" in the other, he knows not in what direction to
turn. At length the log falls under his eye; and striding mechanically
towards it, he sits down--to reflect upon the levity of his conduct, and
the unpleasant consequences of an unhallowed kiss.

CHAPTER FIVE.

SQUATTER AND SAINT.

Return we to the squatter's cabin--this time to enter it. Inside, there
is not much to be seen or described. The interior consists of a single
room--of which the log-walls are the sides, and the clapboard roof the
ceiling. In one corner there is a little partition or screen--the
materials composing it being skins or the black bear and fallow deer.
It is pleasant to look upon this little chamber: it is the shrine of
modesty and virgin innocence. Its presence proves that the squatter is
not altogether a savage.

Rude as is the interior of the sheiling, it contains a few relics of
bygone, better days--not spent there, but elsewhere. Some books are
seen upon a little shelf--the library of Lilian's mother--and two or
three pieces of furniture, that have once been decent, if not stylish.
But chattels of this land are scarce in the backwoods--even in the
houses of more pretentious people than a squatter; and a log-stool or
two, a table of split poplar planks, an iron pot, some pans and pails of
tin, a few plates and pannikins of the same material, a gourd "