Betty loved the woods, and she knew all the trees.  She could tell their names by the bark or the shape of the leaves.  The giant black oak, with its smooth shiny bark and sturdy limbs, the chestnut with its rugged, seamed sides and bristling burrs, the hickory with its lofty height and curled shelling bark, were all well known and well loved by Betty.  Many times had she wondered at the trembling, quivering leaves of the aspen, and the foliage of the silver-leaf as it glinted in the sun.  To-day, especially, as she walked through the woods, did their beauty appeal to her.  In the little sunny patches of clearing which were scattered here and there in the grove, great clusters of goldenrod grew profusely.  The golden heads swayed gracefully on the long stems Betty gathered a few sprigs and added to them a bunch of warmly tinted maple leaves.

The chestnuts burrs were opening.  As Betty mounted a little rocky eminence and reached out for a limb of a chestnut tree, she lost her footing and fell.  Her right foot had twisted under her as she went down, and when a sharp pain shot through it she was unable to repress a cry.  She got up, tenderly placed the foot on the ground and tried her weight on it, which caused acute pain.  She unlaced and removed her moccasin to find that her ankle had commenced to swell.  Assured that she had sprained it, and aware of the serious consequences of an injury of that nature, she felt greatly distressed.  Another effort to place her foot on the ground and bear her weight on it caused such severe pain that she was compelled to give up the attempt.  Sinking down by the trunk of the tree and leaning her head against it she tried to think of a way out of her difficulty.

The fort, which she could plainly see, seemed a long distance off, although it was only a little way down the grassy slope.  She looked and looked, but not a person was to be seen.  She called to Tige.  She remembered that he had been chasing a squirrel a short while ago, but now there was no sign of him.  He did not come at her call.  How annoying!  If Tige were only there she could have sent him for help.  She shouted several times, but the distance was too great for her voice to carry to the fort.  The mocking echo of her call came back from the bluff that rose to her left.  Betty now began to be alarmed in earnest, and the tears started to roll down her cheeks.  The throbbing pain in her ankle, the dread of having to remain out in that lonesome forest after dark, and the fear that she might not be found for hours, caused Betty’s usually brave spirit to falter; she was weeping unreservedly.

In reality she had been there only a few minutes—­although they seemed hours to her—­when she heard the light tread of moccasined feet on the moss behind her.  Starting up with a cry of joy she turned and looked up into the astonished face of Alfred Clarke.

Returning from a hunt back in the woods he had walked up to her before being aware of her presence.  In a single glance he saw the wildflowers scattered beside her, the little moccasin turned inside out, the woebegone, tearstained face, and he knew Betty had come to grief.