Alfred did not know in the least who Betty was, but, as he thought that unimportant, he started off on a run for the fort.  He had a vague idea that Betty was the servant, possibly Sam’s wife, or some one of the Colonel’s several slaves.

Let us return to Betty.  As she wheeled her pony and rode away from the scene of her adventure on the river bluff, her state of mind can be more readily imagined than described.  Betty hated opposition of any kind, whether justifiable or not; she wanted her own way, and when prevented from doing as she pleased she invariably got angry.  To be ordered and compelled to give up her ride, and that by a stranger, was intolerable.  To make it all the worse this stranger had been decidedly flippant.  He had familiarly spoken to her as “a pretty little girl.”  Not only that, which was a great offense, but he had stared at her, and she had a confused recollection of a gaze in which admiration had been ill disguised.  Of course, it was that soldier Lydia had been telling her about.  Strangers were of so rare an occurrence in the little village that it was not probable there could be more than one.

Approaching the house she met her brother who told her she had better go indoors and let Sam put up the pony.  Accordingly, Betty called the negro, and then went into the house.  Bessie had gone to the fort with the children.  Betty found no one to talk to, so she tried to read.  Finding she could not become interested she threw the book aside and took up her embroidery.  This also turned out a useless effort; she got the linen hopelessly twisted and tangled, and presently she tossed this upon the table.  Throwing her shawl over her shoulders, for it was now late in the afternoon and growing chilly, she walked downstairs and out into the Yard.  She strolled aimlessly to and fro awhile, and then went over to the fort and into Captain Bogg’s house, which adjoined the blockhouse.  Here she found Lydia preparing flax.

“I saw you racing by on your pony.  Goodness, how you can ride!  I should be afraid of breaking my neck,” exclaimed Lydia, as Betty entered.

“My ride was spoiled,” said Betty, petulantly.

“Spoiled?  By what—­whom?”

“By a man, of course,” retorted Betty, whose temper still was high.  “It is always a man that spoils everything.”

“Why, Betty, what in the world do you mean?  I never heard you talk that way,” said Lydia, opening her blue eyes in astonishment.

“Well, Lyde, I’ll tell you.  I was riding down the river road and just as I came to the end of the clearing a man jumped out from behind some bushes and grasped Madcap’s bridle.  Imagine!  For a moment I was frightened out of my wits.  I instantly thought of the Girtys, who, I have heard, have evinced a fondness for kidnapping little girls.  Then the fellow said he was on guard and ordered me, actually commanded me to go home.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Lydia, laughing.