The young girl stands for some moments in the attitude she has assumed. Her sister has gone aside to pluck some flowers growing by the bank of the stream, and Marian is now alone. Her eye is bent upon the door; and she appears to hesitate between two thoughts. Shall she approach and listen? She knows _a little_--she desires to know _more_. She has not merely conjectured the object of the schoolmaster's visit; she is _certain_ it concerns herself. It is not simply that which troubles her spirits. Left to herself, she would make light of such a suitor, and give him his _conge_ with a brusque promptitude. But her father--why does _he_ yield to the solicitations of this man? This is the mystery she desires to unravel. Can it be a _debt_? Scarcely that. In the lawless circle of backwoods' Society, the screw of the creditor has but little power over the victim of debt--certainly not enough to enslave such a free fearless spirit as that of Hickman Holt. The girl knows this, and hence her painful suspicion that points to some _other cause_. What cause? She would know. She makes one step towards the house, as if bent upon espionage. Again she pauses, and appears undecided. The chinks between the logs are open all round the hut--so, too, the interstices between the hewn planks of the door. No one can approach near to the walls without being seen from the inside; and a listener would be sure of being discovered. Is it this reflection that stays her in her steps? that causes her to turn back? Or does the action spring from a nobler motive? Whichever it be, it seems to bring about a change in her determination. Suddenly turning away, she stands facing to the forest--as if with the intention of launching herself into its sombre depths. A call of adieu to her sister--a signal to Wolf to follow--and she is gone. Whither, and for what purpose? Why loves she these lone rambles under the wild-wood shade? She has declared that she delights in them; but can we trust her declaration? True, hers a strange spirit--tinged, no doubt, with the moral tendencies of her mother's race--in which the love of solitude is almost an idiosyncrasy. But with her this forest-ranging is almost a new practice: only for a month or so has she been indulging in this romantic habit--so incomprehensible to the home-loving Lilian. Her father puts no check upon such inclinations: on the contrary, he encourages them, as if proud of his daughter's _penchant_ for the chase. Though purely a white man, his nature has been Indianised by the habits of his life: and in his eyes, the chase is the noblest accomplishment-- even for a woman? Does the fair Marian think so? Or has she another motive for absenting herself so frequently from her home? Let us follow her into the forest. There, perhaps, we may find an answer to the enigma. CHAPTER THREE. THE LOVERS' RENDEZVOUS.