“You’re talking nonsense, Joe. Amy loves me—she don’t care a fig for George Hilliard. I’ll marry her on my return, with or without her father’s consent. Hilliard is a Canadian—an English sympathizer. Mr. Larkin will not forget that. Besides, if we have another war with Great Britain—as appears likely—this neighborhood will become too warm for the forehanded George. I care nothing for Amy’s prospective fortune, but I love her. And I’m going to marry her, no matter who may oppose.” The young man’s chest heaved, and defiance to the whole world shone in his gray eyes. “It’s a good thing to have plenty o’ grit an’ confidence,” Farley chuckled; “but ther’s a chance o’ havin’ too much o’ even a _good_ thing—I swan ther’ is! An’ lawzee! Hain’t I had the ’xperience? Many’s the purty, rosy-cheeked gals I could ’ave got in my younger days. W’y, they used to tag after me an’ pester me ’most to death. I’ve had more’n a dozen of ’em dead in love with me at one time—fairly scratchin’ each other’s eyes out, quar’lin’ ’bout which one ’ld git me. All of ’em love-sick over my beauty—my purty form an’ features. But I jest stuck my nose up in the air an’ passed ’em by. An’ see me to-day! I’m an everlastin’ warnin’—a livin’ monument to disap’inted love an’ dangnation foolishness. Ther’ ain’t a piece o’ linsey-woolsey in the whole settlement that’ll even look—Snakes an’ garters! What’s that?” Both white men started. The Indian stolidly maintained his position upon the prow of the canoe; but his ready finger rested upon the trigger of his gun. A heavy body came crashing through the weeds and bushes upon the bank. Then the vines and branches parted; and, with a hoarse yelp of joy, a large dog sprang into the open and crouched at Douglas’s feet. He was a magnificent black-and-tan animal, lithe and strong as a panther—an immense bloodhound. He was wet and muddy; and as he lay at his master’s feet, he rolled his red-rimmed eyes and panted and whined. A piece of thong was about his neck, to which was fastened a short sharpened stake. “Well, if that don’t beat my reckonin’!” bawled Farley, opening his wide mouth and hawhawing heartily. “How in the name o’ Julius Cæsar did that dog ever git loose? That stake was druv in the hard floor o’ my shack, deep enough to hold a bull—it was, by the Queen o’ Sheba! An’ he’s pulled it up. But how in the plague did he git out o’ the cabin? Must ’ave crawled up the chimbly—by cracky! ’Cause I latched the door as I come out—I’m certain of it. Dang-it-all-to-dingnation! But it does beat all!” The dog now attempted to raise his head and lick his master’s hand. Failing in this, he slowly arose to his feet, tremulously wagged his tail, and beseechingly fastened his eyes upon Ross’s face. Then he whined. “Down, Duke!” Douglas commanded sternly. The dog obeyed; but rolled his great eyes upward toward the being he loved and worshiped, as though begging pardon for his misconduct.