"No, your father was murdered, and the shock of his death killed your mother." "But all that I could hear with composure, mother, for bad as it is, it is not the worst." "What is worse, then, my child?" "That Herbert has dared to love me, dared to ask me to be his wife." This touched the mother's heart, not for the sorrowing girl, but for her son, and she said quickly: "And is it so terrible to become my son's wife, Jennie?" "Oh! are you too blind not to see that my regard for him is so different, that I could never become his wife, never love him, that I hate him?" "You hate my son?" cried the mother. "Yes, and his father, and you surely do not wish me to hate you, too, by urging that you wish me to marry Herbert Bernard," and Jennie was upon her feet now, her face flushed with indignation. "Jennie, I never had a daughter, and you have held the place of one in my heart. I have loved you from the moment you came into my home, and knowing that Herbert knew you were not his sister, knowing the truth myself, I have not regarded it as wrong that he should love you. Now that you know that he is not your brother, and, unless you are in love with this wild Lieutenant Carey, that your affections are not centered elsewhere, I must do as my husband and son demand, and tell you that it is the wish of us all that you shall become Herbert's wife." As though she were a snake in her room Jennie sprang away from her, while she cried: "I have seen you weak and yielding to your husband and son, and often wished that you had some of my spirit; but I did not deem you so criminally weak as to turn against me when I appeal to you as a daughter to a mother." "Jennie! Jennie!" cried the unhappy woman, who was fighting her heart to serve her husband's will, to obey her son's command. "I will say no more, for I can do nothing, say nothing now, as I have appealed in vain." "But what can you, will you do, my poor child?" "God only knows," was the pitiful reply, and as she threw herself down upon the bed Mrs. Bernard arose and glided from the room. But poor Jennie was in no mood to remain quiet, and soon she sprang to her feet and hastily descended to the piazza. There were the large saddle bags belonging to Mr. Bernard, and seizing these, she went back to her room. Quickly she packed into the leather pouches such clothing as she could conveniently carry, and then put on her buckskin riding-habit and slouch hat. She had some money of her own, and this she put in her pocket, rolled up a couple of blankets, and with her rifle in hand sallied forth, carrying the heavy saddle bags. Going to the stable she saddled and bridled her own horse, mounted, and rode away, no one observing her departure. She took the trail toward the hostiles' retreat, and had gone but a mile, when she rode unexpectedly into the midst of a group of Indian horsemen. It was Red Hatchet and his band. CHAPTER XXVI. A COMPACT.