“It was last winter.  But I have been contented and happy this summer.  Of course, it is not Philadelphia life, and I miss the excitement and gayety of my uncle’s house.  I knew my place was with my brothers.  My aunt pleaded with me to live with her and not go to the wilderness.  I had everything I wanted there—­luxury, society, parties, balls, dances, friends—­all that the heart of a girl could desire, but I preferred to come to this little frontier settlement.  Strange choice for a girl, was it not?”

“Unusual, yes,” answered Alfred, gravely.  “And I cannot but wonder what motives actuated our coming to Fort Henry.  I came to seek my fortune.  You came to bring sunshine into the home of your brother, and left your fortune behind you.  Well, your motive has the element of nobility.  Mine has nothing but that of recklessness.  I would like to read the future.”

“I do not think it is right to have such a wish.  With the veil rolled away could you work as hard, accomplish as much?  I do not want to know the future.  Perhaps some of it will be unhappy.  I have made my choice and will cheerfully abide by it.  I rather envy your being a man.  You have the world to conquer.  A woman—­what can she do?  She can knead the dough, ply the distaff, and sit by the lattice and watch and wait.”

“Let us postpone such melancholy thoughts until some future day.  I have not as yet said anything that I intended.  I wish to tell you how sorry I am that I acted in such a rude way the night your brother came home.  I do not know what made me do so, but I know I have regretted it ever since.  Will you forgive me and may we not be friends?”

“I—­I do not know,” said Betty, surprised and vaguely troubled by the earnest light in his eyes.

“But why?  Surely you will make some little allowance for a naturally quick temper, and you know you did not—­that you were—­”

“Yes, I remember I was hasty and unkind.  But I made amends, or at least, I tried to do so.”

“Try to overlook my stupidity.  I will not give up until you forgive me.  Consider how much you can avoid by being generous.”

“Very well, then, I will forgive you,” said Betty, who had arrived at the conclusion that this young man was one of determination.

“Thank you.  I promise you shall never regret it.  And the sprained ankle?  It must be well, as I noticed you danced beautifully.”

“I am compelled to believe what the girls say—­that you are inclined to the language of compliment.  My ankle is nearly well, thank you.  It hurts a little now and then.”

“Speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened,” said Alfred, watching her closely.  He desired to tease her a little, but he was not sure of his ground.  “I had been all day in the woods with nothing but my thoughts—­mostly unhappy ones—­for company.  When I met you I pretended to be surprised.  As a matter of fact I was not, for I had followed your dog.  He took a liking to me and I was extremely pleased, I assure you.  Well, I saw your face a moment before you knew I was as near you.  When you heard my footsteps you turned with a relieved and joyous cry.  When you saw whom it was your glad expression changed, and if I had been a hostile Wyandot you could not have looked more unfriendly.  Such a woeful, tear-stained face I never saw.”