“After the death of her parents,” he continued, “I stole away Charles Brownlee’s little daughter, and hid her among the Shawnees. Her life alone stood between the unprincipled relative and the estate he coveted; and I felt that it was necessary to hide her from him. Tenskwatawa adopted her. The tribe believed—and yet believes—her a gift from the Great Spirit. The Prophet has loved her—has been kind to her. But when I sought to take her from him, to send her to school, he was exceedingly angry and threatened to have me killed. However, my will was the stronger. I had my way, and sent her to a mission school in Quebec. There she remained—securely hidden from the prying eyes of her relative’s agents—for five or six years. At the end of the time, I restored her to the care of the Shawnees. There you met her. She learned to love you; you fell in love with her——” “Have you told La Violette her life’s history?” Ross interrupted. “Call her Violet Brownlee—that’s her English name,” the father answered. “Yes, I have told her all.” “Why—why do you wish me to marry her?” the son inquired hesitatingly. “For this reason: You are my son; and I love you. I love her as a daughter. Ever since I met you at the Prophet’s Town, I have felt you should marry her. She loves you—she needs your protection. The murderer of her parents still lives. He is in undisputed ownership of the property. But he knows that she isn’t dead; and is anxiously awaiting for her to put in an appearance and lay claim to the estate—that he may dispose of her forever. I have in my possession documents that establish her identity and her title to her father’s wealth——” “Isn’t it for the sake of this same wealth that you wish me to marry Violet Brownlee, Hiram Brad—father?” Ross asked haltingly, his face flushing. “Not at all,” John Douglas replied in a tone of deep sincerity. “I have property and money—I’m wealthy. All I have is yours. I’ve never enjoyed my riches—now it’s too late. In giving all to you, let me fondly imagine that I’m making some slight atonement for what I’ve made you and your mother suffer. You’ll find my deeds, mortgages, and other private papers—including those pertaining to Violet and her inheritance—in this leathern packet. I’ve carried it with me for months, hoping to meet you and give it to you.” With these words, the father drew from a pocket within his hunting-shirt a large leather wallet, and extended it toward his son. Silently Ross took the pocketbook and thrust it into his bosom. “You’ll carry out my wishes,” the older man remarked quietly. “If you don’t live to carry them out yourself, father,” Ross replied with feeling, “I will see that Miss Brownlee gains possession of her own——” “Please say that you’ll marry Violet, my son,” the father said pleadingly. For a few minutes the younger man was silent—wrapped in deep thought. Then he answered slowly and solemnly: