By twos and threes they strolled on, until finally Amy and Mr. Blackford found themselves in rather a lonely part of the woods, separated from the others. "I guess we had better be getting back," he observed with a smile. "They may be anxious about us." "Yes," agreed Amy. "But it is so wonderful here--in the winter woods. I feel I could stay--forever!" They walked along a narrow path. There was a movement in the trees over their heads. "What is that?" asked Amy, suddenly. "A bird, I guess. Did you think it was a bear?" Amy did not answer at once. Then she screamed as the grayish body of some animal with curiously tufted ears, sprang from an overhanging branch straight at her. Mr. Blackford, who was carrying a heavy cudgel, turned quickly at the sound of Amy's voice, and pulled her to one side. He was not altogether successful, for the keen claws of the lynx grazed Amy's shoulder, tearing through her coat and dress, ripping off the sleeves and leaving her arm exposed to the shoulder, a slight scratch, through even the thicknesses of cloth, bringing blood. With a snarl the beast turned as though to repeat the attack, but Mr. Blackford brought down the cudgel on its head with such force that the brute turned with a shrill cry of pain and fled. Then the young man, who had caught the almost fainting girl in his other arm, turned his attention to her. "Amy--Amy!" he cried. "Are you hurt? Speak and tell me!" Slowly she opened her eyes. The blood came back into her cheeks, that paled again at the sight of the crimson mark on her arm. "It is only a scratch--not deep," said Mr. Blackford, reassuringly. "The brute leaped to one side. It must have been desperate to spring on you that way." "What was it?" asked Amy, weakly. "A lynx--a fierce sort of beast. Wait, I will bind up your arm," and he drew out his handkerchief. As he was winding the linen about the cut he started. A queer look came over his face. He stared at a mark--a strange red mark--on her shoulder. "That--that!" stammered Mr. Blackford. "How did you come by that mark, Amy?" He stood holding her arm--her arm whence the sleeves had been ripped, and the young man was gazing with fascinated eyes at a peculiar star-shaped mark in deep red imprinted on the white flesh. In red it matched the ruddy hue of the blood drawn by the lynx. "Tell me," he said, hoarsely, "how did that mark come there?" "It is a birth mark," said Amy, slowly. "It has always been there. But why--why do you question me so? Why do you look at me so strangely?" "Because, Amy, there may be something providential in this. Because you--you may be my--sister!" "Your sister!" She started as though to pull away from him, but he held her arm, continuing to gaze at the red mark. "Yes," he answered. "Wait. I must make sure this time. I have a drawing of it. Let me compare it, please. You are not cold?"