"Wal, miss, it war rayther a toughish struggle while it lasted. But, bless ye, that's nothin' so long as it's turned out all right. If you'd not been the plucky one you air, nothin' I could ha' done would have helped ye. It war your own grit as much as my muscle saved ye from fallin' into that trap."

"My horse. Where is he?"

"Yur right there, he's gone, poor crittur. I'd ha' liked to saved him, too, for the way he behaved. That dumb crittur had more sense in him than many a human; and it 'ud ha' done me a sight o' good to have pulled him thro'; but it wasn't possible, nohow."

"Tell me, sir, where did you come from? I did not see you."

"Wal, I war clost by, and seed you ride right on to the danger. It war too late to holler, for that would only ha' made things worse, an'

skeared you both; so I said nothin', but jist dropped my rifle, and made track toarst ye. I spied the branch above you, an' speeled up to it.

The next war nothin'--only a spell o' twisting an' wrigglin'."

He did not tell her that the muscles of his arms were fearfully swollen, and that it demanded all his power of endurance to prevent him groaning at the intense agony he suffered.

But the young lady, with a quickness of apprehension, seemed to understand this, too.

"Nothing, do you say? Oh! sir, it's another proof of your n.o.ble courage. I can never show you enough grat.i.tude. For all that, I feel deeply grateful."

Her voice trembled with emotion--tears welled into her eyes.

Her brave heart had well endured danger, but could not contemplate, without betraying its emotion, the self-generosity of her preserver.

"Wal," said he, in order to change the conversation, which he thought too flattering towards himself, "what do you intend doing, now that your horse is gone?"

She wiped the tears from her eyes, and in a firm voice answered him--

"I'm not more than four or five miles from my home. I merely rode out for pleasure. I little thought that my excursion would end thus. Where do you live, sir? I don't remember to have seen you before."

"At the settlement?" he asked.

She nodded.

"No; I ain't a resident of no place. I'm as you see me--a hunter. I've been at the settlement tho' many a time; in fact, I used to live on that thar spot afore thar war any settlement. It war enough for me to know they war a-comin', so I pulled up stakes and quit. You see, miss, it don't do for a hunter to live among the clearins; besides, I'm a deal happier by myself."

"No doubt. To a contented mind, such a life as yours must be a happy one."

"That's it, miss; to them as is contented. Do you know I've often and often puzzled over the expressin' o' that idear, and never could hit it; and yet you've gin it in the snapping of a jack-knife."

"Perhaps you were going to the settlement when you saw me?"

"No; exactly t'other way. I war goin' from it. I've been down beyont hyar to meet a friend o' mine. It ain't long ago tho' since I war in the colony, and staid a spell there. Now I'm bound for the big Savanna, that is, arter I've seen you home, and out of danger."

"Oh, no thank you, that's not at all necessary. I'm used to wander about alone, although this part of the country is a little new to me."

"If you'll allow me, miss, I'll go with pleasure."

"That I cannot do. All I want to know now is your name?"

"Cris Carrol," was the hunter's reply.

"Then," said she holding out her pretty white hand, "Cris Carrol, I thank you with my whole heart for what you have done for me. I will remember it to my dying day."

Like a knight of ancient chivalry, the backwoodsman stooped and kissed the proffered hand.

When he stood erect again, a flush of pleasurable pride made his rugged face look as handsome as an Apollo's. It was the beauty of honesty.

"Bless you, miss, bless you! Cris Carrol will allers be too glad to do a sarvice for one that's real grit, as you air. That I'll swar to.

Bless you!"

As she turned to take her departure, a sudden idea struck the backwoodsman--

"Why, what a durn'd old fool I am; I never axed her for her name."

"You'll pardon me, miss," said he, "I'm sure you will--but--"

"But, what?" she asked, smilingly.

"But, might I ask you--I'd like to know--" here he stammered and stuttered.

"You want to know my name; that's it, isn't it?"

"The very thing!"

"Alice Rody."

The old backwoodsman started on hearing it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

As Alice Rody left the spot, which had so nearly proved her tomb, she thought of the old hunter with admiration. His courage and honest courtesy had won her, but she had also noticed his surprise on hearing her name.

Of the feeling entertained by him for her father and brother she knew nothing.

The female mind loves riddles, and Alice, like a true woman, racked her brain for a solution of that one Carrol's conduct seemed to embody.

Thus occupied, she emerged from the forest, and had proceeded some distance upon her road, when she perceived two individuals in close conversation.

Their backs were turned towards her, and, as her light footfall did not disturb them, she got close to the spot on which they stood without their perceiving her.

Near enough, in fact, to hear the following:--

"Hark you, you black rascal! If you betray me, it will be the worse for you. I have a means of silencing those who prove false to me."

Whatever reply the "black rascal" would have made was prevented by an impetuous gesture of the speaker, who had caught sight of Alice.