ll die together." That last appeal being made with a very
touching quaver of a very melodious voice.

For answer, I assisted her out of the boat, which Charlie was already
fastening by the chain to some bushes near the bit of beach; and tucking
the little gloved hand under my arm, seized an opportunity to whisper
something not particularly relevant to this story.

The boat being secured, we climbed a short distance up the rocky bank,
stopping to gather wild roses and mock-orange blossoms, which, in spite
of her alarm, engaged Miss Lane's attention to such an extent that
Charlie had gotten fairly out of sight before we missed him. But as we
turned to follow, he confronted us with a face expressive of a droll
kind of perplexity.

"Not a red rascal in sight," said he, glancing back over his shoulder,
"except that queer old cove that was sitting in the stern. _He's_ just
over there," jerking his head in the direction meant, "sitting on his
haunches like an Egyptian idol, and about as motionless, and about as
ancient."

"But their canoe," I said, "what could they have done with their canoe?
It is not in the water, and there is no sign here of their having
dragged it ashore."

"They didn't land, not in the regular way, I mean, for I was watching
for them every instant; and how that old chap got there, and how that
canoe got out of sight so quick, is too hard a nut for me to crack, I
confess."

"Let us not go near the dreadful old thing," pleaded Fanny once more,
her alarm returning.

Again I proposed to her to stay in the boat with Charlie, which had the
effect, as before, to determine her upon going with us; which
determination I strengthened by an encouraging pressure of the little
gloved hand in my possession; and without waiting for further alarms
pressed on at once, with Charlie for guide, to the spot where the
"dreadful old thing" was understood to be.

And there, sure enough, he was, squatting on the ground beside a spring,
where grew a thicket of willows and wild roses; alone and silent,
evidently watching, if not waiting, for our approach.

"What will you say to him?" asked Fanny, as we came quite near, eyeing
the singular object with evident dread.

"We'll ask him if he is hungry," said Charlie lightly. "If he is a live
Indian he is sure to say 'yes' to that proposition;" and Charlie
actually produced from his pockets some sandwiches, in a slightly
damaged condition. Holding these before him, very much