“A voice out of the forest answered:  ’Tarhe, great warrior, wise chief, waste not thy time, go back to thy wigwam.’

“Tarhe unheeding cried ’Tarhe wins or dies.  Make him a master so that he may drive the ice northward.’

“Stormed the wild tempest; thundered the rivers of ice; chill blew the north wind, the cold northwest wind, against the mild south wind; snow-spirits and hail-spirits fled before the warm raindrops; the white mountains melted, and lo! it was summer.

“On the mountain top Tarhe waited for his bride.  Never wearying, ever faithful he watched many years.  There he turned to stone.  There he stands to-day, the Standing Stone of ages.  And Smiling Moon, changed by the Great Spirit into the Night Wind, forever wails her lament at dusk through the forest trees, and moans over the mountain tops.”

Myeerah’s story elicited cheers and praises from all.  She was entreated to tell another, but smilingly shook her head.  Now that her shyness had worn off to some extent she took great interest in the jest and the general conversation.

Col.  Zane’s fine old wine flowed like water.  The custom was to fill a guest’s cup as soon as it was empty.  Drinking much was rather encouraged than otherwise.  But Col.  Zane never allowed this custom to go too far in his house.

“Friends, the hour grows late,” he said.  “To-morrow, after the great event, we shall have games, shooting matches, running races, and contests of all kinds.  Capt.  Boggs and I have arranged to give prizes, and I expect the girls can give something to lend a zest to the competition.”

“Will the girls have a chance in these races?” asked Isaac.  “If so, I should like to see Betty and Myeerah run.”

“Betty can outrun any woman, red or white, on the border,” said Wetzel.  “And she could make some of the men run their level best.”

“Well, perhaps we shall give her one opportunity to-morrow,” observed the Colonel.  “She used to be good at running but it seems to me that of late she has taken to books and—­”

“Oh, Eb! that is untrue,” interrupted Betty.

Col.  Zane laughed and patted his sister’s cheek.  “Never mind, Betty,” and then, rising, he continued, “Now let us drink to the bride and groom-to-be.  Capt.  Boggs, I call on you.”

“We drink to the bride’s fair beauty; we drink to the groom’s good luck,” said Capt.  Boggs, raising his cup.

“Do not forget the maid-of-honor,” said Isaac.

“Yes, and the maid-of-honor.  Mr. Clarke, will you say something appropriate?” asked Col.  Zane.

Rising, Clarke said:  “I would be glad to speak fittingly on this occasion, but I do not think I can do it justice.  I believe as Col.  Zane does, that this Indian Princess is the first link in that chain of peace which will some day unite the red men and the white men.  Instead of the White Crane she should be called the White Dove.  Gentlemen, rise and drink to her long life and happiness.”