“I think we had better change the conversation as I am not egotistical enough to wish to talk of myself, and nothing else. Perhaps you play the guitar.” “A little,” he replied, “but I am not going to expose myself by trying to play now. I heard your music as I came up and was literally enthralled by it.” She brought the guitar, and began to clear away the table while he touched the keys and strings lightly, bringing the instrument into tune, while he kept his eyes upon her steadily. There was an elasticity and grace in every movement which spoke of perfect health, and he was obliged to confess that he had never seen her equal. The man was susceptible to female grace and beauty, and was touched now as he never been before, and knew it. Once or twice she met his eyes and was startled by the bold look of admiration in them. He continued to drum upon the strings, merely striking chords and watching her intently. He seemed about to speak, but at this moment the sound of voices could be heard and Old Pegs, accompanied by a young man in a tasteful hunting garb, entered the room. Myrtle sprung forward with a glad cry and gave him both hands while giving him a welcome. “Is that her teacher, I wonder?” muttered Rafe, below his breath. “We shall see. I will not be foiled when the prize for which I play is almost in my grasp.” CHAPTER III. DAVE FARRELL. BRUIN SCOUTING. The young man who had entered was the _beau ideal_ of a Western scout, and Rafe was obliged to confess that he would have made a hard customer to meet in the midst of a border struggle. About five feet and ten inches in hight, straight as a cedar, with curling brown hair, and eyes of the same color, a brown but well-cut face, firm lips and white teeth; dressed as a leader of scouts in the neat fringed hunting-shirt belted at the waist, high horseman’s boots and sombrero; and armed with the rifle, two first-class revolvers and a heavy knife. He carried a bundle in one hand which he dropped to meet the extended hands of Myrtle, and stood there with a smile upon his handsome face. “Rafe Norris,” said Old Pegs, “this hyar chap is Dave Farrell, a real out and outer, at present captain of a trapping brigade of the North-west Company. Ef you meet any one thet asks you, be keerful to tell ’em thet Old Pegs sez he’s a roarer! You kin realize money on that, every time.” Dave Farrell turned to acknowledge the introduction with a peculiar look upon his face. “It seems to me, although I may be wrong—that I have seen you before.” “I don’t remember, Captain Farrell,” replied Rafe, coolly. “Still, I’ve been in many places, and we might have met without recollecting it.” “I think it was in Fort Garry, in the year ’53.” “Scarcely; I have not been in that country for nearly four years.” “We are all liable to mistakes,” said Dave; “but of course you have some kind of business up this way?” “Of course.”