“And ask the young man who saved my life to come that I may thank him,” said Isaac.

“Saved your life?” exclaimed Betty, turning to her brother, in surprise, while a dark red flush spread over her face.  A humiliating thought had flashed into her mind.

“Saved his life, of course,” said Colonel Zane, answering for Isaac.  “Young Clarke pulled him out of the river.  Didn’t he tell you?”

“No,” said Betty, rather faintly.

“Well, he is a modest young fellow.  He saved Isaac’s life, there is no doubt of that.  You will hear all about it after supper.  Don’t make Isaac talk any more at present.”

Betty hid her face on Isaac’s shoulder and remained quiet a few moments; then, rising, she kissed his cheek and went quietly to her room.  Once there she threw herself on the bed and tried to think.  The events of the day, coming after a long string of monotonous, wearying days, had been confusing; they had succeeded one another in such rapid order as to leave no time for reflection.  The meeting by the river with the rude but interesting stranger; the shock to her dignity; Lydia’s kindly advice; the stranger again, this time emerging from the dark depths of disgrace into the luminous light as the hero of her brother’s rescue—­all these thoughts jumbled in her mind making it difficult for her to think clearly.  But after a time one thing forced itself upon her.  She could not help being conscious that she had wronged some one to whom she would be forever indebted.  Nothing could alter that.  She was under an eternal obligation to the man who had saved the life she loved best on earth.  She had unjustly scorned and insulted the man to whom she owed the life of her brother.

Betty was passionate and quick-tempered, but she was generous and tender-hearted as well, and when she realized how unkind and cruel she kind been she felt very miserable.  Her position admitted of no retreat.  No matter how much pride rebelled; no matter how much she disliked to retract anything she had said, she knew no other course lay open to her.  She would have to apologize to Mr. Clarke.  How could she?  What would she say?  She remembered how cold and stern his face had been as he turned from her to Lydia.  Perplexed and unhappy, Betty did what any girl in her position would have done:  she resorted to the consoling and unfailing privilege of her sex—­a good cry.

When she became composed again she got up and bathed her hot cheeks, brushed her hair, and changed her gown for a becoming one of white.  She tied a red ribbon about her throat and put a rosette in her hair.  She had forgotten all about the Indians.  By the time Mrs. Zane called her for supper she had her mind made up to ask Mr. Clarke’s pardon, tell him she was sorry, and that she hoped they might be friends.

Isaac Zane’s fame had spread from the Potomac to Detroit and Louisville.  Many an anxious mother on the border used the story of his captivity as a means to frighten truant youngsters who had evinced a love for running wild in the woods.  The evening of Isaac’s return every one in the settlement called to welcome home the wanderer.  In spite of the troubled times and the dark cloud hanging over them they made the occasion one of rejoicing.