Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $9.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    The Zane Grey Collection: 38 Classic Works
    The Zane Grey Collection: 38 Classic Works
    The Zane Grey Collection: 38 Classic Works
    Ebook9,775 pages145 hours

    The Zane Grey Collection: 38 Classic Works

    By Zane Grey

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Waxkeep Publishing Collections provide history's greatest authors' collected works in a convenient collection complete with a linked table of contents. Waxkeep Publishing's goal is to provide the most complete, and most easy to read collections in the marketplace.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCharles River Editors
    Release dateMar 22, 2018
    ISBN9781625390912
    The Zane Grey Collection: 38 Classic Works
    Author

    Zane Grey

    Zane Grey (1872–1939) was born in Zanesville, Ohio, a city named for a Revolutionary War hero who was his ancestor. After attending the University of Pennsylvania on a baseball scholarship, he started a dentistry practice in New York City and wrote in the evenings. An avid outdoorsman, Grey found his inspiration in the American West, and his bestselling novels, including the iconic Riders of the Purple Sage, established the conventions and the enduring popularity of the Western genre.

    Read more from Zane Grey

    Related authors

    Related to The Zane Grey Collection

    Related ebooks

    Western Fiction For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      Deep In Bears Ears Country

      Jan 8, 2019

      Deep In Bears Ears Country
      9 min read

    • Article

      Silent As The Grave

      Feb 23, 2023

      Silent As The Grave
      6 min read

    • Article

      The Colorado River Frontier

      Jun 18, 2019

      The Colorado River Frontier
      9 min read

    • Article

      A Poor View

      Aug 15, 2019

      A Poor View
      10 min read

    • Article

      It’s Written On The Wind

      May 27, 2020

      It’s Written On The Wind
      6 min read

    • Article

      Imperial Dreamer

      Apr 1, 2023

      Imperial Dreamer
      16 min read

    • Article

      Bayou Sutra

      Aug 27, 2021

      Bayou Sutra
      17 min read

    • Article

      SEARCHING a For A MARY AUSTIN

      Sep 29, 2020

      SEARCHING a For A MARY AUSTIN
      12 min read

    • Article

      Explosion Of The Monster Torpedo

      Oct 6, 2020

      Thomas Morris Chester was born in 1834 in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where his parents operated a restaurant that became known as a gathering place for abolitionists. (His mother was born into slavery but had escaped at age 19.) They were successful e

      12 min read

    • Article

      The Power And The Passion

      Sep 19, 2021

      The Power And The Passion
      4 min read

    • Article

      Bully For Jack Abernathy!

      Jul 23, 2019

      Bully For Jack Abernathy!
      9 min read

    • Article

      Gone Rabbiting

      Dec 14, 2022

      Gone Rabbiting
      2 min read

    • Article

      What Lies Beneath

      Feb 18, 2020

      What Lies Beneath
      4 min read

    • Article

      Ghosts of Pine Island

      Jun 18, 2019

      Ghosts of Pine Island
      12 min read

    • Article

      Death And Decision In Wonderland

      May 8, 2018

      Death And Decision In Wonderland
      15 min read

    • Article

      Indianola, Onward

      May 14, 2019

      Indianola, Onward
      11 min read

    • Article

      The Armchair Angler

      Apr 21, 2020

      Back Seat with FishBy Henry HughesSkyhorse Publishing While it’s not sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll, Henry Hughes’ memoir rejoices in the indulgences of a life full of love, literature and fishing. No one sucks the marrow quite like Hughes. Beginning w

      2 min read

    • Article

      Land Of Ghosts And Legends

      Feb 23, 2023

      Land Of Ghosts And Legends
      10 min read

    • Article

      Land Of Ghosts And Legends

      Feb 23, 2023

      Land Of Ghosts And Legends
      10 min read

    • Article

      This New Religion

      Jun 2, 2020

      He introduced himself as Captain Jack Lash Lannigan, and he said that he was an Irish pirate. “You don’t sound very Irish,” I told him, and he laughed. We—Maia, Gustav and I—had met Captain Jack outside the Nocturnem Draft Haus, a bar on Main Street

      5 min read

    • Article

      Crossing The ‘Rubicon’

      Jul 27, 2021

      Crossing The ‘Rubicon’
      14 min read

    • Article

      ‘Ain't Those The Greatest Pack Of Fox Dawgs!’

      Sep 5, 2024

      THE hounds come tumbling out of the dense woodland and hit the line of the fox with a crash of music, racing away through the arid scrubland. The temperature is in the 90s and the huntsman, in shirt sleeves, bursts from the covert blowing his horn fo

      4 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for The Zane Grey Collection

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      The Zane Grey Collection - Zane Grey

      Betty Zane

      TO THE BETTY ZANE CHAPTER OF THE DAUGHTERS OF THE REVOLUTION THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR

      In a quiet corner of the stately little city of Wheeling, West Va., stands a monument on which is inscribed:

      By authority of the State of West Virginia to commemorate the siege of Fort Henry, Sept 11, 1782, the last battle of the American Revolution, this tablet is here placed.

      Had it not been for the heroism of a girl the foregoing inscription would never have been written, and the city of Wheeling would never have existed. From time to time I have read short stories and magazine articles which have been published about Elizabeth Zane and her famous exploit; but they are unreliable in some particulars, which is owing, no doubt, to the singularly meagre details available in histories of our western border.

      For a hundred years the stories of Betty and Isaac Zane have been familiar, oft-repeated tales in my family—tales told with that pardonable ancestral pride which seems inherent in every one. My grandmother loved to cluster the children round her and tell them that when she was a little girl she had knelt at the feet of Betty Zane, and listened to the old lady as she told of her brother’s capture by the Indian Princess, of the burning of the Fort, and of her own race for life. I knew these stories by heart when a child.

      Two years ago my mother came to me with an old note book which had been discovered in some rubbish that had been placed in the yard to burn. The book had probably been hidden in an old picture frame for many years. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Col. Ebenezer Zane. From its faded and time-worn pages I have taken the main facts of my story. My regret is that a worthier pen than mine has not had this wealth of material.

      In this busy progressive age there are no heroes of the kind so dear to all lovers of chivalry and romance. There are heroes, perhaps, but they are the patient sad-faced kind, of whom few take cognizance as they hurry onward. But cannot we all remember some one who suffered greatly, who accomplished great deeds, who died on the battlefield—some one around whose name lingers a halo of glory? Few of us are so unfortunate that we cannot look backward on kith or kin and thrill with love and reverence as we dream of an act of heroism or martyrdom which rings down the annals of time like the melody of the huntsman’s horn, as it peals out on a frosty October morn purer and sweeter with each succeeding note.

      If to any of those who have such remembrances, as well as those who have not, my story gives an hour of pleasure I shall be rewarded.

      PROLOGUE

      On June 16, 1716, Alexander Spotswood, Governor of the Colony of Virginia, and a gallant soldier who had served under Marlborough in the English wars, rode, at the head of a dauntless band of cavaliers, down the quiet street of quaint old Williamsburg.

      The adventurous spirits of this party of men urged them toward the land of the setting sun, that unknown west far beyond the blue crested mountains rising so grandly before them.

      Months afterward they stood on the western range of the Great North mountains towering above the picturesque Shenandoah Valley, and from the summit of one of the loftiest peaks, where, until then, the foot of a white man had never trod, they viewed the vast expanse of plain and forest with glistening eyes. Returning to Williamsburg they told of the wonderful richness of the newly discovered country and thus opened the way for the venturesome pioneer who was destined to overcome all difficulties and make a home in the western world.

      But fifty years and more passed before a white man penetrated far beyond the purple spires of those majestic mountains.

      One bright morning in June, 1769, the figure of a stalwart, broad shouldered man could have been seen standing on the wild and rugged promontory which rears its rocky bluff high above the Ohio river, at a point near the mouth of Wheeling Creek. He was alone save for the companionship of a deerhound that crouched at his feet. As he leaned on a long rifle, contemplating the glorious scene that stretched before him, a smile flashed across his bronzed cheek, and his heart bounded as he forecast the future of that spot. In the river below him lay an island so round and green that it resembled a huge lily pad floating placidly on the water. The fresh green foliage of the trees sparkled with glittering dewdrops. Back of him rose the high ridges, and, in front, as far as eye could reach, extended an unbroken forest.

      Beneath him to the left and across a deep ravine he saw a wide level clearing. The few scattered and blackened tree stumps showed the ravages made by a forest fire in the years gone by. The field was now overgrown with hazel and laurel bushes, and intermingling with them were the trailing arbutus, the honeysuckle, and the wild rose. A fragrant perfume was wafted upward to him. A rushing creek bordered one edge of the clearing. After a long quiet reach of water, which could be seen winding back in the hills, the stream tumbled madly over a rocky ledge, and white with foam, it hurried onward as if impatient of long restraint, and lost its individuality in the broad Ohio.

      This solitary hunter was Colonel Ebenezer Zane. He was one of those daring men, who, as the tide of emigration started westward, had left his friends and family and had struck out alone into the wilderness. Departing from his home in Eastern Virginia he had plunged into the woods, and after many days of hunting and exploring, he reached the then far Western Ohio valley.

      The scene so impressed Colonel Zane that he concluded to found a settlement there. Taking tomahawk possession of the locality (which consisted of blazing a few trees with his tomahawk), he built himself a rude shack and remained that summer on the Ohio.

      In the autumn he set out for Berkeley County, Virginia, to tell his people of the magnificent country he had discovered. The following spring he persuaded a number of settlers, of a like spirit with himself, to accompany him to the wilderness. Believing it unsafe to take their families with them at once, they left them at Red Stone on the Monongahela river, while the men, including Colonel Zane, his brothers Silas, Andrew, Jonathan and Isaac, the Wetzels, McCollochs, Bennets, Metzars and others, pushed on ahead.

      The country through which they passed was one tangled, most impenetrable forest; the axe of the pioneer had never sounded in this region, where every rod of the way might harbor some unknown danger.

      These reckless bordermen knew not the meaning of fear; to all, daring adventure was welcome, and the screech of a redskin and the ping of a bullet were familiar sounds; to the Wetzels, McCollochs and Jonathan Zane the hunting of Indians was the most thrilling passion of their lives; indeed, the Wetzels, particularly, knew no other occupation. They had attained a wonderful skill with the rifle; long practice had rendered their senses as acute as those of the fox. Skilled in every variety of woodcraft, with lynx eyes ever on the alert for detecting a trail, or the curling smoke of some camp fire, or the minutest sign of an enemy, these men stole onward through the forest with the cautious but dogged and persistent determination that was characteristic of the settler.

      They at length climbed the commanding bluff overlooking the majestic river, and as they gazed out on the undulating and uninterrupted area of green, their hearts beat high with hope.

      The keen axe, wielded by strong arms, soon opened the clearing and reared stout log cabins on the river bluff. Then Ebenezer Zane and his followers moved their families and soon the settlement began to grow and flourish. As the little village commenced to prosper the redmen became troublesome. Settlers were shot while plowing the fields or gathering the harvests. Bands of hostile Indians prowled around and made it dangerous for anyone to leave the clearing. Frequently the first person to appear in the early morning would be shot at by an Indian concealed in the woods.

      General George Rodgers Clark, commandant of the Western Military Department, arrived at the village in 1774. As an attack from the savages was apprehended during the year the settlers determined to erect a fort as a defense for the infant settlement. It was planned by General Clark and built by the people themselves. At first they called it Fort Fincastle, in honor of Lord Dunmore, who, at the time of its erection, was Governor of the Colony of Virginia. In 1776 its name was changed to Fort Henry, in honor of Patrick Henry.

      For many years it remained the most famous fort on the frontier, having withstood numberless Indian attacks and two memorable sieges, one in 1777, which year is called the year of the Bloody Sevens, and again in 1782. In this last siege the British Rangers under Hamilton took part with the Indians, making the attack practically the last battle of the Revolution.

      CHAPTER I.

      The Zane family was a remarkable one in early days, and most of its members are historical characters.

      The first Zane of whom any trace can be found was a Dane of aristocratic lineage, who was exiled from his country and came to America with William Penn. He was prominent for several years in the new settlement founded by Penn, and Zane street, Philadelphia, bears his name. Being a proud and arrogant man, he soon became obnoxious to his Quaker brethren. He therefore cut loose from them and emigrated to Virginia, settling on the Potomac river, in what was then known as Berkeley county. There his five sons, and one daughter, the heroine of this story, were born.

      Ebenezer Zane, the eldest, was born October 7, 1747, and grew to manhood in the Potomac valley. There he married Elizabeth McColloch, a sister of the famous McColloch brothers so well known in frontier history.

      Ebenezer was fortunate in having such a wife and no pioneer could have been better blessed. She was not only a handsome woman, but one of remarkable force of character as well as kindness of heart. She was particularly noted for a rare skill in the treatment of illness, and her deftness in handling the surgeon’s knife and extracting a poisoned bullet or arrow from a wound had restored to health many a settler when all had despaired.

      The Zane brothers were best known on the border for their athletic prowess, and for their knowledge of Indian warfare and cunning. They were all powerful men, exceedingly active and as fleet as deer. In appearance they were singularly pleasing and bore a marked resemblance to one another, all having smooth faces, clear cut, regular features, dark eyes and long black hair.

      When they were as yet boys they had been captured by Indians, soon after their arrival on the Virginia border, and had been taken far into the interior, and held as captives for two years. Ebenezer, Silas, and Jonathan Zane were then taken to Detroit and ransomed. While attempting to swim the Scioto river in an effort to escape, Andrew Zane had been shot and killed by his pursuers.

      But the bonds that held Isaac Zane, the remaining and youngest brother, were stronger than those of interest or revenge such as had caused the captivity of his brothers. He was loved by an Indian princess, the daughter of Tarhe, the chief of the puissant Huron race. Isaac had escaped on various occasions, but had always been retaken, and at the time of the opening of our story nothing had been heard of him for several years, and it was believed he had been killed.

      At the period of the settling of the little colony in the wilderness, Elizabeth Zane, the only sister, was living with an aunt in Philadelphia, where she was being educated.

      Colonel Zane’s house, a two story structure built of rough hewn logs, was the most comfortable one in the settlement, and occupied a prominent site on the hillside about one hundred yards from the fort. It was constructed of heavy timber and presented rather a forbidding appearance with its square corners, its ominous looking portholes, and strongly barred doors and windows. There were three rooms on the ground floor, a kitchen, a magazine room for military supplies, and a large room for general use. The several sleeping rooms were on the second floor, which was reached by a steep stairway.

      The interior of a pioneer’s rude dwelling did not reveal, as a rule, more than bare walls, a bed or two, a table and a few chairs—in fact, no more than the necessities of life. But Colonel Zane’s house proved an exception to this. Most interesting was the large room. The chinks between the logs had been plastered up with clay and then the walls covered with white birch bark; trophies of the chase, Indian bows and arrows, pipes and tomahawks hung upon them; the wide spreading antlers of a noble buck adorned the space above the mantel piece; buffalo robes covered the couches; bearskin rugs lay scattered about on the hardwood floor. The wall on the western side had been built over a huge stone, into which had been cut an open fireplace.

      This blackened recess, which had seen two houses burned over it, when full of blazing logs had cheered many noted men with its warmth. Lord Dunmore, General Clark, Simon Kenton, and Daniel Boone had sat beside that fire. There Cornplanter, the Seneca chief, had made his famous deal with Colonel Zane, trading the island in the river opposite the settlement for a barrel of whiskey. Logan, the Mingo chief and friend of the whites, had smoked many pipes of peace there with Colonel Zane. At a later period, when King Louis Phillippe, who had been exiled from France by Napoleon, had come to America, during the course of his melancholy wanderings he had stopped at Fort Henry a few days. His stay there was marked by a fierce blizzard and the royal guest passed most of his time at Colonel Zane’s fireside. Musing by those roaring logs perhaps he saw the radiant star of the Man of Destiny rise to its magnificent zenith.

      One cold, raw night in early spring the Colonel had just returned from one of his hunting trips and the tramping of horses mingled with the rough voices of the negro slaves sounded without. When Colonel Zane entered the house he was greeted affectionately by his wife and sister. The latter, at the death of her aunt in Philadelphia, had come west to live with her brother, and had been there since late in the preceding autumn. It was a welcome sight for the eyes of a tired and weary hunter. The tender kiss of his comely wife, the cries of the delighted children, and the crackling of the fire warmed his heart and made him feel how good it was to be home again after a three days’ march in the woods. Placing his rifle in a corner and throwing aside his wet hunting coat, he turned and stood with his back to the bright blaze. Still young and vigorous, Colonel Zane was a handsome man. Tall, though not heavy, his frame denoted great strength and endurance. His face was smooth, his heavy eyebrows met in a straight line; his eyes were dark and now beamed with a kindly light; his jaw was square and massive; his mouth resolute; in fact, his whole face was strikingly expressive of courage and geniality. A great wolf dog had followed him in and, tired from travel, had stretched himself out before the fireplace, laying his noble head on the paws he had extended toward the warm blaze.

      Well! Well! I am nearly starved and mighty glad to get back, said the Colonel, with a smile of satisfaction at the steaming dishes a negro servant was bringing from the kitchen.

      We are glad you have returned, answered his wife, whose glowing face testified to the pleasure she felt. Supper is ready—Annie, bring in some cream—yes, indeed, I am happy that you are home. I never have a moment’s peace when you are away, especially when you are accompanied by Lewis Wetzel.

      Our hunt was a failure, said the Colonel, after he had helped himself to a plate full of roast wild turkey. The bears have just come out of their winter’s sleep and are unusually wary at this time. We saw many signs of their work, tearing rotten logs to pieces in search of grubs and bees’ nests. Wetzel killed a deer and we baited a likely place where we had discovered many bear tracks. We stayed up all night in a drizzling rain, hoping to get a shot. I am tired out. So is Tige. Wetzel did not mind the weather or the ill luck, and when we ran across some Indian sign he went off on one of his lonely tramps, leaving me to come home alone.

      He is such a reckless man, remarked Mrs. Zane.

      Wetzel is reckless, or rather, daring. His incomparable nerve carries him safely through many dangers, where an ordinary man would have no show whatever. Well, Betty, how are you?

      Quite well, said the slender, dark-eyed girl who had just taken the seat opposite the Colonel.

      Bessie, has my sister indulged in any shocking escapade in my absence? I think that last trick of hers, when she gave a bucket of hard cider to that poor tame bear, should last her a spell.

      No, for a wonder Elizabeth has been very good. However, I do not attribute it to any unusual change of temperament; simply the cold, wet weather. I anticipate a catastrophe very shortly if she is kept indoors much longer.

      I have not had much opportunity to be anything but well behaved. If it rains a few days more I shall become desperate. I want to ride my pony, roam the woods, paddle my canoe, and enjoy myself, said Elizabeth.

      Well! Well! Betts, I knew it would be dull here for you, but you must not get discouraged. You know you got here late last fall, and have not had any pleasant weather yet. It is perfectly delightful in May and June. I can take you to fields of wild white honeysuckle and May flowers and wild roses. I know you love the woods, so be patient a little longer.

      Elizabeth had been spoiled by her brothers—what girl would not have been by five great big worshippers?—and any trivial thing gone wrong with her was a serious matter to them. They were proud of her, and of her beauty and accomplishments were never tired of talking. She had the dark hair and eyes so characteristic of the Zanes; the same oval face and fine features: and added to this was a certain softness of contour and a sweetness of expression which made her face bewitching. But, in spite of that demure and innocent face, she possessed a decided will of her own, and one very apt to be asserted; she was mischievous; inclined to coquettishness, and more terrible than all she had a fiery temper which could be aroused with the most surprising ease.

      Colonel Zane was wont to say that his sister’s accomplishments were innumerable. After only a few months on the border she could prepare the flax and weave a linsey dresscloth with admirable skill. Sometimes to humor Betty the Colonel’s wife would allow her to get the dinner, and she would do it in a manner that pleased her brothers, and called forth golden praises from the cook, old Sam’s wife who had been with the family twenty years. Betty sang in the little church on Sundays; she organized and taught a Sunday school class; she often beat Colonel Zane and Major McColloch at their favorite game of checkers, which they had played together since they were knee high; in fact, Betty did nearly everything well, from baking pies to painting the birch bark walls of her room. But these things were insignificant in Colonel Zane’s eyes. If the Colonel were ever guilty of bragging it was about his sister’s ability in those acquirements demanding a true eye, a fleet foot, a strong arm and a daring spirit. He had told all the people in the settlement, to many of whom Betty was unknown, that she could ride like an Indian and shoot with undoubted skill; that she had a generous share of the Zanes’ fleetness of foot, and that she would send a canoe over as bad a place as she could find. The boasts of the Colonel remained as yet unproven, but, be that as it may, Betty had, notwithstanding her many faults, endeared herself to all. She made sunshine and happiness everywhere; the old people loved her; the children adored her, and the broad shouldered, heavy footed young settlers were shy and silent, yet blissfully happy in her presence.

      Betty, will you fill my pipe? asked the Colonel, when he had finished his supper and had pulled his big chair nearer the fire. His oldest child, Noah, a sturdy lad of six, climbed upon his knee and plied him with questions.

      Did you see any bars and bufflers? he asked, his eyes large and round.

      No, my lad, not one.

      How long will it be until I am big enough to go?

      Not for a very long time, Noah.

      But I am not afraid of Betty’s bar. He growls at me when I throw sticks at him, and snaps his teeth. Can I go with you next time?

      My brother came over from Short Creek to-day. He has been to Fort Pitt, interposed Mrs. Zane. As she was speaking a tap sounded on the door, which, being opened by Betty, disclosed Captain Boggs his daughter Lydia, and Major Samuel McColloch, the brother of Mrs. Zane.

      Ah, Colonel! I expected to find you at home to-night. The weather has been miserable for hunting and it is not getting any better. The wind is blowing from the northwest and a storm is coming, said Captain Boggs, a fine, soldierly looking man.

      Hello, Captain! How are you? Sam, I have not had the pleasure of seeing you for a long time, replied Colonel Zane, as he shook hands with his guests.

      Major McColloch was the eldest of the brothers of that name. As an Indian killer he ranked next to the intrepid Wetzel; but while Wetzel preferred to take his chances alone and track the Indians through the untrodden wilds, McColloch was a leader of expeditions against the savages. A giant in stature, massive in build, bronzed and bearded, he looked the typical frontiersman. His blue eyes were like those of his sister and his voice had the same pleasant ring.

      Major McColloch, do you remember me? asked Betty.

      Indeed I do, he answered, with a smile. You were a little girl, running wild, on the Potomac when I last saw you!

      Do you remember when you used to lift me on your horse and give me lessons in riding?

      I remember better than you. How you used to stick on the back of that horse was a mystery to me.

      Well, I shall be ready soon to go on with those lessons in riding. I have heard of your wonderful leap over the hill and I should like to have you tell me all about it. Of all the stories I have heard since I arrived at Fort Henry, the one of your ride and leap for life is the most wonderful.

      Yes, Sam, she will bother you to death about that ride, and will try to give you lessons in leaping down precipices. I should not be at all surprised to find her trying to duplicate your feat. You know the Indian pony I got from that fur trader last summer. Well, he is as wild as a deer and she has been riding him without his being broken, said Colonel Zane.

      Some other time I shall tell you about my jump over the hill. Just now I have important matters to discuss, answered the Major to Betty.

      It was evident that something unusual had occurred, for after chatting a few moments the three men withdrew into the magazine room and conversed in low, earnest tones.

      Lydia Boggs was eighteen, fair haired and blue eyed. Like Betty she had received a good education, and, in that respect, was superior to the border girls, who seldom knew more than to keep house and to make linen. At the outbreak of the Indian wars General Clark had stationed Captain Boggs at Fort Henry and Lydia had lived there with him two years. After Betty’s arrival, which she hailed with delight, the girls had become fast friends.

      Lydia slipped her arm affectionately around Betty’s neck and said,Why did you not come over to the Fort to-day?

      It has been such an ugly day, so disagreeable altogether, that I have remained indoors.

      You missed something, said Lydia, knowingly.

      What do you mean? What did I miss?

      Oh, perhaps, after all, it will not interest you.

      How provoking! Of course it will. Anything or anybody would interest me to-night. Do tell me, please.

      It isn’t much. Only a young soldier came over with MajorMcColloch.

      A soldier? From Fort Pitt? Do I know him? I have met most of the officers.

      No, you have never seen him. He is a stranger to all of us.

      There does not seem to be so much in your news, said Betty, in a disappointed tone. To be sure, strangers are a rarity in our little village, but, judging from the strangers who have visited us in the past, I imagine this one cannot be much different.

      Wait until you see him, said Lydia, with a serious little nod of her head.

      Come, tell me all about him, said Betty, now much interested.

      Major McColloch brought him in to see papa, and he was introduced to me. He is a southerner and from one of those old families. I could tell by his cool, easy, almost reckless air. He is handsome, tall and fair, and his face is frank and open. He has such beautiful manners. He bowed low to me and really I felt so embarrassed that I hardly spoke. You know I am used to these big hunters seizing your hand and giving it a squeeze which makes you want to scream. Well, this young man is different. He is a cavalier. All the girls are in love with him already. So will you be.

      I? Indeed not. But how refreshing. You must have been strongly impressed to see and remember all you have told me.

      Betty Zane, I remember so well because he is just the man you described one day when we were building castles and telling each other what kind of a hero we wanted.

      Girls, do not talk such nonsense, interrupted the Colonel’s wife who was perturbed by the colloquy in the other room. She had seen those ominous signs before. Can you find nothing better to talk about?

      Meanwhile Colonel Zane and his companions were earnestly discussing certain information which had arrived that day. A friendly Indian runner had brought news to Short Creek, a settlement on the river between Fort Henry and Fort Pitt of an intended raid by the Indians all along the Ohio valley. Major McColloch, who had been warned by Wetzel of the fever of unrest among the Indians—a fever which broke out every spring—had gone to Fort Pitt with the hope of bringing back reinforcements, but, excepting the young soldier, who had volunteered to return with him, no help could he enlist, so he journeyed back post-haste to Fort Henry.

      The information he brought disturbed Captain Boggs, who commanded the garrison, as a number of men were away on a logging expedition up the river, and were not expected to raft down to the Fort for two weeks.

      Jonathan Zane, who had been sent for, joined the trio at this moment, and was acquainted with the particulars. The Zane brothers were always consulted where any question concerning Indian craft and cunning was to be decided. Colonel Zane had a strong friendly influence with certain tribes, and his advice was invaluable. Jonathan Zane hated the sight of an Indian and except for his knowledge as a scout, or Indian tracker or fighter, he was of little use in a council. Colonel Zane informed the men of the fact that Wetzel and he had discovered Indian tracks within ten miles of the Fort, and he dwelt particularly on the disappearance of Wetzel.

      Now, you can depend on what I say. There are Wyandots in force on the war path. Wetzel told me to dig for the Fort and he left me in a hurry. We were near that cranberry bog over at the foot of Bald mountain. I do not believe we shall be attacked. In my opinion the Indians would come up from the west and keep to the high ridges along Yellow creek. They always come that way. But of course, it is best to know surely, and I daresay Lew will come in to-night or to-morrow with the facts. In the meantime put out some scouts back in the woods and let Jonathan and the Major watch the river.

      I hope Wetzel will come in, said the Major. We can trust him to know more about the Indians than any one. It was a week before you and he went hunting that I saw him. I went to Fort Pitt and tried to bring over some men, but the garrison is short and they need men as much as we do. A young soldier named Clarke volunteered to come and I brought him along with me. He has not seen any Indian fighting, but he is a likely looking chap, and I guess will do. Captain Boggs will give him a place in the block house if you say so.

      By all means. We shall be glad to have him, said Colonel Zane.

      It would not be so serious if I had not sent the men up the river, said Captain Boggs, in anxious tones. Do you think it possible they might have fallen in with the Indians?

      It is possible, of course, but not probable, answered Colonel Zane. The Indians are all across the Ohio. Wetzel is over there and he will get here long before they do.

      I hope it may be as you say. I have much confidence in your judgment, returned Captain Boggs. I shall put out scouts and take all the precaution possible. We must return now. Come, Lydia.

      Whew! What an awful night this is going to be, said Colonel Zane, when he had closed the door after his guests’ departure. I should not care to sleep out to-night.

      Eb, what will Lew Wetzel do on a night like this? asked Betty, curiously.

      Oh, Lew will be as snug as a rabbit in his burrow, said Colonel Zane, laughing. In a few moments he can build a birch bark shack, start a fire inside and go to sleep comfortably.

      Ebenezer, what is all this confab about? What did my brother tell you? asked Mrs. Zane, anxiously.

      We are in for more trouble from the Wyandots and Shawnees. But, Bessie, I don’t believe it will come soon. We are too well protected here for anything but a protracted siege.

      Colonel Zane’s light and rather evasive answer did not deceive his wife. She knew her brother and her husband would not wear anxious faces for nothing. Her usually bright face clouded with a look of distress. She had seen enough of Indian warfare to make her shudder with horror at the mere thought. Betty seemed unconcerned. She sat down beside the dog and patted him on the head.

      Tige, Indians! Indians! she said.

      The dog growled and showed his teeth. It was only necessary to mention Indians to arouse his ire.

      The dog has been uneasy of late, continued Colonel Zane He found the Indian tracks before Wetzel did. You know how Tige hates Indians. Ever since he came home with Isaac four years ago he has been of great service to the scouts, as he possesses so much intelligence and sagacity. Tige followed Isaac home the last time he escaped from the Wyandots. When Isaac was in captivity he nursed and cared for the dog after he had been brutally beaten by the redskins. Have you ever heard that long mournful howl Tige gives out sometimes in the dead of night?

      Yes I have, and it makes me cover up my head, said Betty.

      Well, it is Tige mourning for Isaac, said Colonel Zane

      Poor Isaac, murmured Betty.

      Do you remember him? It has been nine years since you saw him, said Mrs. Zane.

      Remember Isaac? Indeed I do. I shall never forget him. I wonder if he is still living?

      Probably not. It is now four years since he was recaptured. I think it would have been impossible to keep him that length of time, unless, of course, he has married that Indian girl. The simplicity of the Indian nature is remarkable. He could easily have deceived them and made them believe he was content in captivity. Probably, in attempting to escape again, he has been killed as was poor Andrew.

      Brother and sister gazed with dark, sad eyes into the fire, now burned down to a glowing bed of coals. The silence remained unbroken save for the moan of the rising wind outside, the rattle of hail, and the patter of rain drops on the roof.

      CHAPTER II.

      Fort Henry stood on a bluff overlooking the river and commanded a fine view of the surrounding country. In shape it was a parallelogram, being about three hundred and fifty-six feet in length, and one hundred and fifty in width. Surrounded by a stockade fence twelve feet high, with a yard wide walk running around the inside, and with bastions at each corner large enough to contain six defenders, the fort presented an almost impregnable defense. The blockhouse was two stories in height, the second story projecting out several feet over the first. The thick white oak walls bristled with portholes. Besides the blockhouse, there were a number of cabins located within the stockade. Wells had been sunk inside the inclosure, so that if the spring happened to go dry, an abundance of good water could be had at all times.

      In all the histories of frontier life mention is made of the forts and the protection they offered in time of savage warfare. These forts were used as homes for the settlers, who often lived for weeks inside the walls.

      Forts constructed entirely of wood without the aid of a nail or spike (for the good reason that these things could not be had) may seem insignificant in these days of great nasal and military garrisons. However, they answered the purpose at that time and served to protect many an infant settlement from the savage attacks of Indian tribes. During a siege of Fort Henry, which had occurred about a year previous, the settlers would have lost scarcely a man had they kept to the fort. But Captain Ogle, at that time in charge of the garrison, had led a company out in search of the Indians. Nearly all of his men were killed, several only making their way to the fort.

      On the day following Major McColloch’s arrival at Fort Henry, the settlers had been called in from their spring plowing and other labors, and were now busily engaged in moving their stock and the things they wished to save from the destructive torch of the redskin. The women had their hands full with the children, the cleaning of rifles and moulding of bullets, and the thousand and one things the sterner tasks of their husbands had left them. Major McColloch, Jonathan and Silas Zane, early in the day, had taken different directions along the river to keep a sharp lookout for signs of the enemy. Colonel Zane intended to stay in his oven house and defend it, so he had not moved anything to the fort excepting his horses and cattle. Old Sam, the negro, was hauling loads of hay inside the stockade. Captain Boggs had detailed several scouts to watch the roads and one of these was the young man, Clarke, who had accompanied the Major from Fort Pitt.

      The appearance of Alfred Clarke, despite the fact that he wore the regulation hunting garb, indicated a young man to whom the hard work and privation of the settler were unaccustomed things. So thought the pioneers who noticed his graceful walk, his fair skin and smooth hands. Yet those who carefully studied his clearcut features were favorably impressed; the women, by the direct, honest gaze of his blue eyes and the absence of ungentle lines in his face; the men, by the good nature, and that indefinable something by which a man marks another as true steel.

      He brought nothing with him from Fort Pitt except his horse, a black-coated, fine limbed thoroughbred, which he frankly confessed was all he could call his own. When asking Colonel Zane to give him a position in the garrison he said he was a Virginian and had been educated in Philadelphia; that after his father died his mother married again, and this, together with a natural love of adventure, had induced him to run away and seek his fortune with the hardy pioneer and the cunning savage of the border. Beyond a few months’ service under General Clark he knew nothing of frontier life; but he was tired of idleness; he was strong and not afraid of work, and he could learn. Colonel Zane, who prided himself on his judgment of character, took a liking to the young man at once, and giving him a rifle and accoutrements, told him the border needed young men of pluck and fire, and that if he brought a strong hand and a willing heart he could surely find fortune. Possibly if Alfred Clarke could have been told of the fate in store for him he might have mounted his black steed and have placed miles between him and the frontier village; but, as there were none to tell, he went cheerfully out to meet that fate.

      On this is bright spring morning he patrolled the road leading along the edge of the clearing, which was distant a quarter of a mile from the fort. He kept a keen eye on the opposite side of the river, as he had been directed. From the upper end of the island, almost straight across from where he stood, the river took a broad turn, which could not be observed from the fort windows. The river was high from the recent rains and brush heaps and logs and debris of all descriptions were floating down with the swift current. Rabbits and other small animals, which had probably been surrounded on some island and compelled to take to the brush or drown, crouched on floating logs and piles of driftwood. Happening to glance down the road, Clarke saw a horse galloping in his direction. At first he thought it was a messenger for himself, but as it neared him he saw that the horse was an Indian pony and the rider a young girl, whose long, black hair was flying in the wind.

      Hello! I wonder what the deuce this is? Looks like an Indian girl, said Clarke to himself. She rides well, whoever she may be.

      He stepped behind a clump of laurel bushes near the roadside and waited. Rapidly the horse and rider approached him. When they were but a few paces distant he sprang out and, as the pony shied and reared at sight of him, he clutched the bridle and pulled the pony’s head down. Looking up he encountered the astonished and bewildered gaze from a pair of the prettiest dark eyes it had ever been his fortune, or misfortune, to look into.

      Betty, for it was she, looked at the young man in amazement, while Alfred was even more surprised and disconcerted. For a moment they looked at each other in silence. But Betty, who was scarcely ever at a loss for words, presently found her voice.

      Well, sir! What does this mean? she asked indignantly.

      It means that you must turn around and go back to the fort, answered Alfred, also recovering himself.

      Now Betty’s favorite ride happened to be along this road. It lay along the top of the bluff a mile or more and afforded a fine unobstructed view of the river. Betty had either not heard of the Captain’s order, that no one was to leave the fort, or she had disregarded it altogether; probably the latter, as she generally did what suited her fancy.

      Release my pony’s head! she cried, her face flushing, as she gave a jerk to the reins. How dare you? What right have you to detain me?

      The expression Betty saw on Clarke’s face was not new to her, for she remembered having seen it on the faces of young gentlemen whom she had met at her aunt’s house in Philadelphia. It was the slight, provoking smile of the man familiar with the various moods of young women, the expression of an amused contempt for their imperiousness. But it was not that which angered Betty. It was the coolness with which he still held her pony regardless of her commands.

      Pray do not get excited, he said. I am sorry I cannot allow such a pretty little girl to have her own way. I shall hold your pony until you say you will go back to the fort.

      Sir! exclaimed Betty, blushing a bright-red. You—you are impertinent!

      Not at all, answered Alfred, with a pleasant laugh. I am sure I do not intend to be. Captain Boggs did not acquaint me with full particulars or I might have declined my present occupation: not, however, that it is not agreeable just at this moment. He should have mentioned the danger of my being run down by Indian ponies and imperious young ladies.

      Will you let go of that bridle, or shall I get off and walk back for assistance? said Betty, getting angrier every moment.

      Go back to the fort at once, ordered Alfred, authoritatively. Captain Boggs’ orders are that no one shall be allowed to leave the clearing.

      Oh! Why did you not say so? I thought you were Simon Girty, or a highwayman. Was it necessary to keep me here all this time to explain that you were on duty?

      You know sometimes it is difficult to explain, said Alfred, besides, the situation had its charm. No, I am not a robber, and I don’t believe you thought so. I have only thwarted a young lady’s whim, which I am aware is a great crime. I am very sorry. Goodbye.

      Betty gave him a withering glance from her black eyes, wheeled her pony and galloped away. A mellow laugh was borne to her ears before she got out of hearing, and again the red blood mantled her cheeks.

      Heavens! What a little beauty, said Alfred to himself, as he watched the graceful rider disappear. What spirit! Now, I wonder who she can be. She had on moccasins and buckskin gloves and her hair tumbled like a tomboy’s, but she is no backwoods girl, I’ll bet on that. I’m afraid I was a little rude, but after taking such a stand I could not weaken, especially before such a haughty and disdainful little vixen. It was too great a temptation. What eyes she had! Contrary to what I expected, this little frontier settlement bids fair to become interesting.

      The afternoon wore slowly away, and until late in the day nothing further happened to disturb Alfred’s meditations, which consisted chiefly of different mental views and pictures of red lips and black eyes. Just as he decided to return to the fort for his supper he heard the barking of a dog that he had seen running along the road some moments before. The sound came from some distance down the river bank and nearer the fort. Walking a few paces up the bluff Alfred caught sight of a large black dog running along the edge of the water. He would run into the water a few paces and then come out and dash along the shore. He barked furiously all the while. Alfred concluded that he must have been excited by a fox or perhaps a wolf; so he climbed down the steep bank and spoke to the dog. Thereupon the dog barked louder and more fiercely than ever, ran to the water, looked out into the river and then up at the man with almost human intelligence.

      Alfred understood. He glanced out over the muddy water, at first making out nothing but driftwood. Then suddenly he saw a log with an object clinging to it which he took to be a man, and an Indian at that. Alfred raised his rifle to his shoulder and was in the act of pressing the trigger when he thought he heard a faint halloo. Looking closer, he found he was not covering the smooth polished head adorned with the small tuft of hair, peculiar to a redskin on the warpath, but a head from which streamed long black hair.

      Alfred lowered his rifle and studied intently the log with its human burden. Drifting with the current it gradually approached the bank, and as it came nearer he saw that it bore a white man, who was holding to the log with one hand and with the other was making feeble strokes. He concluded the man was either wounded or nearly drowned, for his movements were becoming slower and weaker every moment. His white face lay against the log and barely above water. Alfred shouted encouraging words to him.

      At the bend of the river a little rocky point jutted out a few yards into the water. As the current carried the log toward this point, Alfred, after divesting himself of some of his clothing, plunged in and pulled it to the shore. The pallid face of the man clinging to the log showed that he was nearly exhausted, and that he had been rescued in the nick of time. When Alfred reached shoal water he slipped his arm around the man, who was unable to stand, and carried him ashore.

      The rescued man wore a buckskin hunting shirt and leggins and moccasins of the same material, all very much the worse for wear. The leggins were torn into tatters and the moccasins worn through. His face was pinched with suffering and one arm was bleeding from a gunshot wound near the shoulder.

      Can you not speak? Who are you? asked Clarke, supporting the limp figure.

      The man made several efforts to answer, and finally said something that to Alfred sounded like Zane, then he fell to the ground unconscious.

      All this time the dog had acted in a most peculiar manner, and if Alfred had not been so intent on the man he would have noticed the animal’s odd maneuvers. He ran to and fro on the sandy beach; he scratched up the sand and pebbles, sending them flying in the air; he made short, furious dashes; he jumped, whirled, and, at last, crawled close to the motionless figure and licked its hand.

      Clarke realized that he would not be able to carry the inanimate figure, so he hurriedly put on his clothes and set out on a run for Colonel Zane’s house. The first person whom he saw was the old negro slave, who was brushing one of the Colonel’s horses.

      Sam was deliberate and took his time about everything. He slowly looked up and surveyed Clarke with his rolling eyes. He did not recognize in him any one he had ever seen before, and being of a sullen and taciturn nature, especially with strangers, he seemed in no hurry to give the desired information as to Colonel Zane’s whereabouts.

      Don’t stare at me that way, you damn nigger, said Clarke, who was used to being obeyed by negroes. Quick, you idiot. Where is the Colonel?

      At that moment Colonel Zane came out of the barn and started to speak, when Clarke interrupted him.

      Colonel, I have just pulled a man out of the river who says his name is Zane, or if he did not mean that, he knows you, for he surely said ‘Zane.’

      What! ejaculated the Colonel, letting his pipe fall from his mouth.

      Clarke related the circumstances in a few hurried words. Calling Sam they ran quickly down to the river, where they found the prostrate figure as Clarke had left it, the dog still crouched close by.

      My God! It is Isaac! exclaimed Colonel Zane, when he saw the white face. Poor boy, he looks as if he were dead. Are you sure he spoke? Of course he must have spoken for you could not have known. Yes, his heart is still beating.

      Colonel Zane raised his head from the unconscious man’s breast, where he had laid it to listen for the beating heart.

      Clarke, God bless you for saving him, said he fervently. It shall never be forgotten. He is alive, and, I believe, only exhausted, for that wound amounts to little. Let us hurry.

      I did not save him. It was the dog, Alfred made haste to answer.

      They carried the dripping form to the house, where the door was opened by Mrs. Zane.

      Oh, dear, another poor man, she said, pityingly. Then, as she saw his face, Great Heavens, it is Isaac! Oh! don’t say he is dead!

      Yes, it is Isaac, and he is worth any number of dead men yet, said Colonel Zane, as they laid the insensible man on the couch. Bessie, there is work here for you. He has been shot.

      Is there any other wound beside this one in his arm? asked Mrs.Zane, examining it.

      I do not think so, and that injury is not serious. It is lose of blood, exposure and starvation. Clarke, will you please run over to Captain Boggs and tell Betty to hurry home! Sam, you get a blanket and warm it by the fire. That’s right, Bessie, bring the whiskey, and Colonel Zane went on giving orders.

      Alfred did not know in the least who Betty was, but, as he thought that unimportant, he started off on a run for the fort. He had a vague idea that Betty was the servant, possibly Sam’s wife, or some one of the Colonel’s several slaves.

      Let us return to Betty. As she wheeled her pony and rode away from the scene of her adventure on the river bluff, her state of mind can be more readily imagined than described. Betty hated opposition of any kind, whether justifiable or not; she wanted her own way, and when prevented from doing as she pleased she invariably got angry. To be ordered and compelled to give up her ride, and that by a stranger, was intolerable. To make it all the worse this stranger had been decidedly flippant. He had familiarly spoken to her as a pretty little girl. Not only that, which was a great offense, but he had stared at her, and she had a confused recollection of a gaze in which admiration had been ill disguised. Of course, it was that soldier Lydia had been telling her about. Strangers were of so rare an occurrence in the little village that it was not probable there could be more than one.

      Approaching the house she met her brother who told her she had better go indoors and let Sam put up the pony. Accordingly, Betty called the negro, and then went into the house. Bessie had gone to the fort with the children. Betty found no one to talk to, so she tried to read. Finding she could not become interested she threw the book aside and took up her embroidery. This also turned out a useless effort; she got the linen hopelessly twisted and tangled, and presently she tossed this upon the table. Throwing her shawl over her shoulders, for it was now late in the afternoon and growing chilly, she walked downstairs and out into the Yard. She strolled aimlessly to and fro awhile, and then went over to the fort and into Captain Bogg’s house, which adjoined the blockhouse. Here she found Lydia preparing flax.

      I saw you racing by on your pony. Goodness, how you can ride! I should be afraid of breaking my neck, exclaimed Lydia, as Betty entered.

      My ride was spoiled, said Betty, petulantly.

      Spoiled? By what—whom?

      By a man, of course, retorted Betty, whose temper still was high.It is always a man that spoils everything.

      Why, Betty, what in the world do you mean? I never heard you talk that way, said Lydia, opening her blue eyes in astonishment.

      Well, Lyde, I’ll tell you. I was riding down the river road and just as I came to the end of the clearing a man jumped out from behind some bushes and grasped Madcap’s bridle. Imagine! For a moment I was frightened out of my wits. I instantly thought of the Girtys, who, I have heard, have evinced a fondness for kidnapping little girls. Then the fellow said he was on guard and ordered me, actually commanded me to go home.

      Oh, is that all? said Lydia, laughing.

      No, that is not all. He—he said I was a pretty little girl and that he was sorry I could not have my own way; that his present occupation was pleasant, and that the situation had its charm. The very idea. He was most impertinent, and Betty’s telltale cheeks reddened again at the recollection.

      Betty, I do not think your experience was so dreadful, certainly nothing to put you out as it has, said Lydia, laughing merrily. Be serious. You know we are not in the backwoods now and must not expect so much of the men. These rough border men know little of refinement like that with which you have been familiar. Some of them are quiet and never speak unless addressed; their simplicity is remarkable; Lew Wetzel and your brother Jonathan, when they are not fighting Indians, are examples. On the other hand, some of them are boisterous and if they get anything to drink they will make trouble for you. Why, I went to a party one night after I had been here only a few weeks and they played a game in which every man in the place kissed me.

      Gracious! Please tell me when any such games are likely to be proposed and I’ll stay home, said Betty.

      I have learned to get along very well by simply making the best of it, continued Lydia. And to tell the truth, I have learned to respect these rugged fellows. They are uncouth; they have no manners, but their hearts are honest and true, and that is of much greater importance in frontiersmen than the little attentions and courtesies upon which women are apt to lay too much stress.

      I think you speak sensibly and I shall try and be more reasonable hereafter. But, to return to the man who spoiled my ride. He, at least, is no frontiersman, notwithstanding his gun and his buckskin suit. He is an educated man. His manner and accent showed that. Then he looked at me so differently. I know it was that soldier from Fort Pitt.

      Mr. Clarke? Why, of course! exclaimed Lydia, clapping her hands in glee. How stupid of me!

      You seem to be amused, said Betty, frowning.

      Oh, Betty, it is such a good joke.

      Is it? I fail to see it.

      But I can. I am very much amused. You see, I heard Mr. Clarke say, after papa told him there were lots of pretty girls here, that he usually succeeded in finding those things out and without any assistance. And the very first day he has met you and made you angry. It is delightful.

      Lyde, I never knew you could be so horrid.

      It is evident that Mr. Clarke is not only discerning, but not backward in expressing his thoughts. Betty, I see a romance.

      Don’t be ridiculous, retorted Betty, with an angry blush. Of course, he had a right to stop me, and perhaps he did me a good turn by keeping me inside the clearing, though I cannot imagine why he hid behind the bushes. But he might have been polite. He made me angry. He was so cool and—and—

      I see, interrupted Lydia, teasingly. He failed to recognize your importance.

      Nonsense, Lydia. I hope you do not think I am a silly little fool. It is only that I have not been accustomed to that kind of treatment, and I will not have it.

      Lydia was rather pleased that some one had appeared on the scene who did not at once bow down before Betty, and therefore she took the young man’s side of the argument.

      Do not be hard on poor Mr. Clarke. Maybe he mistook you for anIndian girl. He is handsome. I am sure you saw that.

      Oh, I don’t remember how he looked, said Betty. She did remember, but would not admit it.

      The conversation drifted into other channels after this, and soon twilight came stealing down on them. As Betty rose to go there came a hurried tap on the door.

      I wonder who would knock like that, said Lydia, rising Betty, wait a moment while I open the door.

      On doing this she discovered Clarke standing on the step with his cap in his hand.

      Why, Mr. Clarke! Will you come in? exclaimed Lydia. Thank you, only for a moment, said Alfred. I cannot stay. I came to find Betty. Is she here?

      He had not observed Betty, who had stepped back into the shadow of the darkening room. At his question Lydia became so embarrassed she did not know what to say or do, and stood looking helplessly at him.

      But Betty was equal to the occasion. At the mention of her first name in such a familiar manner by this stranger, who had already grievously offended her once before that day, Betty stood perfectly still a moment, speechless with surprise, then she stepped quickly out of the shadow.

      Clarke turned as he heard her step and looked straight into a pair of dark, scornful eyes and a face pale with anger.

      If it be necessary that you use my name, and I do not see how that can be possible, will you please have courtesy enough to say Miss Zane? she cried haughtily.

      Lydia recovered her composure sufficiently to falter out:

      Betty, allow me to introduce—

      Do not trouble yourself, Lydia. I have met this person once before to-day, and I do not care for an introduction.

      When

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1