"I never loved you, believing you to be my brother, Herbert Bernard, as I could have wished to love a brother, and certainly now that I know you as you are, I cannot even respect you. Stand aside, please, for I desire to make my arrangements to at once leave your father's house, for I do not believe, even your mother will give me her aid now." "I will stand aside, Jennie, but I vow to you, that unless you promise to be my wife you shall become the bride of Red Hatchet, the Sioux chief." And with this fearful threat the inhuman lover turned on his heel and strode toward the house. CHAPTER XXV. A LAST APPEAL. Jennie waited in the arbor until she saw Herbert Bernard enter the house, and then she hastily made her way to her own room. She was almost stunned with grief, and only her indignation kept her up. As she was about to give way to a fit of weeping she beheld an Indian coming at a gallop up the trail to the house. "It is a Cheyenne, one of the Indian police," she said, quickly, and she watched the redskin horseman approach and heard him call out to some one on the piazza: "Me Owl Eyes, Cheyenne soldier. Come from white Captain Carey, good man, with letter for pale-face cattle man." "From Captain Carey he says he comes. I will at once write a letter, and give it to him to carry back," cried Jennie, and seating herself at her table, she hastily penned the epistle which the reader knows Lieutenant Carey had received. Slipping out of the cabin, she met the Indian courier at the creek, and handed him the letter. "You will give this to Captain Carey, Owl Eyes?" she said. "Oh, yes, me glad to give him talking paper from pretty squaw," was the gallant response of the Cheyenne soldier, and he set off on his return, Mrs. Bernard having given him a haversack full of provisions. Then Jennie returned to the house, determined to have an interview with Mrs. Bernard. She found the woman, whom she had dearly loved as a mother, busy in her household duties. Mr. Bernard had gone off on the ranch somewhere, and Herbert had mounted his horse, and ridden away. Mrs. Bernard wore a distressed look, and appeared very much as though she would have been glad to avoid an interview with the girl who deemed herself so deeply wronged by the conduct of father and son. "Mrs. Bernard, mother, may I talk with you, for I am so unhappy," she said. "Yes, my poor child, I will come to your room, if it must be; but you are not more unhappy than I am," was the kindly response. The two went together to Jennie's room, so pretty and inviting under her refined taste, and throwing herself upon her knees she buried her face in the lap of Mrs. Bernard, who was herself deeply affected. "Come, my child, you must not yield to your grief, or you will make yourself ill." "But have you heard all, mother?" "Yes, my husband said that he had told you the secret of your parentage." "But that is not all."