“After he had murdered my father, George Hilliard took all the money he could find and fled. For weeks I lay between life and death, hardly realizing where I was or what had happened. The good people of the settlement provided for my wants, and took care of me. Slowly I regained something of my wonted strength. But I had no means of support; so, with a number of others who were returning to the East, I set out for western Pennsylvania, hoping to find a shelter among my father’s people. But a short distance up the lake from here, our company was set upon by a band of Indians, and we were taken prisoners and brought to the British encampment. Among the savages who attacked our party was George Hilliard, disguised as an Indian. He recognized me—of course. He mocked at my misery, cuffed and kicked me, and threatened to kill my baby——” Here her voice almost failed her. But she went on resolutely: “I believe he would have done so, had it not been for an angel at the encampment—I can’t call her anything else—a beautiful girl who shielded me from his violence, and helped me to escape. Oh, how beautiful her face was—but how sad! She had red-gold hair, and eyes of heaven’s own blue——” Ross Douglas had arisen to his feet. Eagerly he asked: “And her name—her name?” Amy Hilliard keenly eyed her questioner, before replying. Presently she said slowly: “I heard my captors call her La Violette.” Douglas, in spite of a strong effort to control himself, uttered an exclamation of joyful surprise. His countenance was alight, his eyes were shining. “You know her?” Amy said, with lifted brows. “Yes—I know her,” he replied cautiously. “Go on with your story.” But she did not. Instead she inquired: “How long have you known her?” “Ever since I was a captive among the Indians,” he answered candidly. “She nursed me when I was wounded; she helped me to escape.” Her woman’s intuition enabled her to arrive at the truth at a bound. Calmly she said: “Ross, you love this beautiful girl—you love La Violette.” He made no reply in words. But the hot blood crimsoned his tanned cheeks and mounted to his white forehead. Then the tell-tale tide receded as quickly as it had arisen; and again he was outwardly calm. At that moment, the woman who had been caring for the baby approached the mother and remarked: “The little thing’s gone to sleep, at last. I see you’re feelin’ better,”—in a slightly sarcastic tone—“so I’ll let you take care of her now, while I look after my own affairs.” “I thank you for your kindness,” Amy murmured confusedly. “You’re welcome,” the woman replied, with a slight toss of the head, and turned and left. “You love La Violette,” the young woman repeated, again fixing her gaze upon Ross’s face.