“There he placed me in school; and again disappeared. Eight years passed; and in all that time I saw nothing of my relative—my guardian. At last came word that he was dead—and that I was penniless. I left school. My soul hungered for love and sympathy. I was fatherless—motherless. Of acquaintances, I had many; of warm, helpful friends, I had none. I thought of my old friends, the Wyandots. I made my way westward, rejoined them—and was received with open arms. But a change had come over me. I had the instinct and tastes of a hunter—but I was no longer a young savage. For a time I lived with the Wyandots; but I spent my time in hunting and in trading among the red hunters of Ohio and the lakes. I made money. I learned three or four Indian tongues—I acquainted myself with all the arts and wiles of the different tribes. But at last the white blood in my veins asserted itself. I began to long for the companionship of my own people. So I established myself here at Franklinton and took up land. But I have continued to trade among the Indians—I have retained the friendship of the Wyandots. I have made more money in one month than your father and George Hilliard have made in twelve. A year ago I met and loved you. It’s needless to say more—you know the rest.” She had been watching his face intently and drinking in every word he said. Now she clasped her hands and murmured pleadingly: “Oh, Ross! If only you will tell father what you have told me, all will be well. He’ll give his consent to our marriage—I know he will.” “As soon as I return, I’ll do so, Amy.” “No—no!” she pouted prettily. “_Now_ is the time. Come to the house with me at once.” “I cannot, dear. Be patient a little while. As you say—all will be well.” Quickly arising to her feet and catching him by the arm, she cried playfully: “You _shall_ not go. See—I’ll hold you.” He bent and kissed her. Then slipping his arm around her yielding waist he remarked: “Amy, there is another reason why I should go to fight against the allied tribes. Leatherlips, the foster-father of Bright Wing, was one of my steadfast friends. As you know, he was brutally murdered a year ago last June, at the instigation of the Shawnee Prophet. His death should be avenged.” A startled look crept into her eyes, and involuntarily she shrunk from him as she whispered tremulously: “Ross—Ross! Surely you don’t mean to do murder! You’re not an Indian. I’m almost afraid of you.” With a merry laugh he caught her to him and answered: “What a timid little body you are, Amy. Of course I don’t mean to do murder. But I _do_ mean that the Prophet shall be shorn of his power to do further mischief, to commit further acts of violence—and that I should help to do it. And”—in a low, fierce tone—“if ever I meet him in open battle one of us will die. Bid me good-by now. I must be going—my comrades are waiting for me.” But she burst into tears and clung to him, sobbing: