"Grace would die sooner than write a lie," said the mother. At that moment Jack Woodson entered the room. "Where is Grace? What is this story I hear?" he asked excitedly. The farmer handed him the note, which he read hurriedly and then tossed upon the floor. "It's a lie! a false, cruel lie!" he cried. "My darling never wrote that--never could write it. It's the work of that villain, Walden. Do you know what I have just heard? Tom Walden was arrested on a charge of forgery in Chicago--would have gone to prison, for his conviction was certain, but jumped his bail, and fled. His name is not Walden at all. There is a man at the hotel who knows all about him, and described him this very hour. More than that, there is an old indictment against him in New York for murder. The plea was self-defence, and the case never came to trial. Now they have new evidence that he deliberately murdered the man. He was then known as Tom Walden. My Grace run away with a man like that! Never! He has carried her off, and has written this note himself to deceive us. He has stolen her, but I will pursue him and bring her back, if I have to kill him to do it!" Then, without further words, he rushed from the house into the darkness. The next morning he had disappeared, and no one knew where he had gone, nor for months did the settlers hear tidings of him or of Grace or of Tom Walden. In one of the wildest parts of the Northwest woods an Indian village had been built. There were no white settlers within many miles, and the tribe was said to be a peaceful one, never going on the warpath, and always treating with kindness the few straggling whites who made their way into this wilderness. In one of the larger lodges of the village, one pleasant afternoon in the late autumn, were a man of about forty and a girl not much over twenty. The girl's complexion was fair, and she had none of the characteristics of the Indian, although dressed like one. The man was tall and swarthy, with long, black hair, which hung straight down upon his broad shoulders, his face was cruel and crafty, and his every look was evil. He was dressed in half-savage, half-civilized style, wearing a fur cap, an embroidered hunting-shirt of buckskin, woolen trousers, heavy boots, and a red sash in which were thrust a brace of pistols and a knife. "See here, Grace," he said to the girl who sat before him on a low couch of skins, "I haven't brought you here for nothing, and you must be my wife." "Never, Tom Walden, or whatever your evil name is," said the girl. "Far from home and friends, among these wild and savage men, less pitiless than you are, I can still defy you. I will never be your wife!" "These people are my allies," said Walden. "I have inflamed them against the whites, and they are ready to go on the warpath if I bid them. They will kill you as soon as any one, if I give the word, and I will if you do not consent to----"