“After him, dog, and tear him to pieces!” he exclaimed, furiously. The dog plunged into the forest with a howl, and took his trail with the quickness of lightning. Suddenly the yelp of the dog ceased, and before he had taken a dozen steps, the moaning, bleeding form of his dog appeared. He dropped with a whine at the captain’s feet. The poor brute was dead, and Captain Parks was convinced that the Shawnees were pretty well rid of their friendly feeling toward the settlers. CHAPTER XII. It is one of those pleasant summer days, a few months after the occurrence of the events recorded in our last chapter, that we take a glance at the settlement which figures so conspicuously in our narrative, and which latterly had enjoyed comparative quiet. Captain Parks, on his return from the adventure related in our last chapter, had given his opinion that the whole Shawnee tribe, and Bill especially, were a set of unmitigated scoundrels, and that it would never do to repose the least confidence in them. Late in the evening of the beautiful summer’s day of which we speak, Kingman and Irene passed through the block-house and arm-in-arm made their way slowly toward the river. The girlish beauty of Irene had ripened into all the fascinating charms of womanhood. There was a deeper blueness in her mild, affectionate eye, though it could still sparkle with its wonted fire, and a meeker, more subdued expression of the countenance. “What a magnificent night,” remarked Kingman. “Too beautiful to sleep,” returned Irene. “For what, then, is it made?” “For meditation and devotion.” “And love!” added Kingman, pressing the girl impulsively to him. “It is now three years since I first asked you to be my bonny wife, Irene. You did not refuse me, but thought you were too young, and I waited another year before I asked you. You made the same answer the second time, and I have now waited two long years without making the slightest reference to it. We are both older, and I trust I am wiser now. Irene, will you be my wife?” “I guess I am too old now.” Kingman looked down into the face resting upon his shoulder, for he did not know the meaning of the words—but it was not dark enough to conceal the roguish twinkle of her eyes. “Don’t you think I am getting too old?” she asked, reaching up and brushing the hair from his forehead. “Well, you are rather old, that’s a fact—older than I ever knew you to be before—‘but better late than never,’ you know.” “Then it matters little how late it is—so suppose we wait a few years longer yet.” “An unsupposable case, my dear.” “But not an impossible one.” “I hope so. My gracious! I have waited three years already.” “But we will be wiser and older then.” “We will be older, I suppose, but little wiser.” “And wiser, too, I am sure. We can try it and see, at all events.” “Irene, will you not promise me now?” asked Kingman, in an earnest tone. “Perhaps so. Ask and see.”