“Mr. Clarke, please do not speak any more of that,” said Betty with dignity.  “I desire that you forget it.”

“I will forget all except that it was I who had the happiness of finding you and of helping you.  I cannot forget that.  I am sure we should never have been friends but for that accident.”

“There is Isaac.  He is looking for me,” answered Betty, rising.

“Wait a moment longer—­please.  He will find you,” said Alfred, detaining her.  “Since you have been so kind I have grown bolder.  May I come over to see you to-morrow?”

He looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fell before he had completed his question.

“There is Isaac.  He cannot see me here.  I must go.”

“But not before telling me.  What is the good of your forgiving me if I may not see you.  Please say yes.”

“You may come,” answered Betty, half amused and half provoked at his persistence.  “I should think you would know that such permission invariably goes with a young woman’s forgiveness.”

“Hello, here you are.  What a time I have had in finding you,” said Isaac, coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with excitement.  “Alfred, what do you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away like this?  I want to dance with you, Betts.  I am having a fine time.  I have not danced anything but Indian dances for ages.  Sorry to take her away, Alfred.  I can see she doesn’t want to go.  Ha!  Ha!” and with a mischievous look at both of them he led Betty away.

Alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought.  Suddenly he remembered that it would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, so he got up and found a partner.  He danced with Alice, Lydia, and the other young ladies.  After an hour he slipped away to his room.  He wished to be alone.  He wanted to think; to decide whether it would be best for him to stay at the fort, or ride away in the darkness and never return.  With the friendly touch of Betty’s hand the madness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over him stronger than ever.  The thrill of that soft little palm remained with him, and he pressed the hand it had touched to his lips.

For a long hour he sat by his window.  He could dimly see the broad winding river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, the dark outline of the forest.  A cool breeze from the water fanned his heated brow, and the quiet and solitude soothed him.

CHAPTER IV.

“Good morning, Harry.  Where are you going so early?” called Betty from the doorway.

A lad was passing down the path in front of Colonel Zane’s house as Betty hailed him.  He carried a rifle almost as long as himself.

“Mornin’, Betty.  I am goin’ ’cross the crick fer that turkey I hear gobblin’,” he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly at Betty.

“Hello, Harry Bennet.  Going after that turkey?  I have heard him several mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler,” said Colonel Zane, stepping to the door.  “You are going to have company.  Here comes Wetzel.”