“Do you get homesick?”

“Indeed I do.  While at Fort Pitt I used to have spells of the blues which lasted for days.  For a time I felt more contented here.  But I fear the old fever of restlessness will come over me again.  I can speak freely to you because I know you will understand, and I feel sure of your sympathy.  My father wanted me to be a minister.  He sent me to the theological seminary at Princeton, where for two years I tried to study.  Then my father died.  I went home and looked after things until my mother married again.  That changed everything for me.  I ran away and have since been a wanderer.  I feel that I am not lazy, that I am not afraid of work, but four years have drifted by and I have nothing to show for it.  I am discouraged.  Perhaps that is wrong, but tell me how I can help it.  I have not the stoicism of the hunter, Wetzel, nor have I the philosophy of your brother.  I could not be content to sit on my doorstep and smoke my pipe and watch the wheat and corn grow.  And then, this life of the borderman, environed as it is by untold dangers, leads me, fascinates me, and yet appalls me with the fear that here I shall fall a victim to an Indian’s bullet or spear, and find a nameless grave.”

A long silence ensued.  Alfred had spoken quietly, but with an undercurrent of bitterness that saddened Betty.  For the first time she saw a shadow of pain in his eyes.  She looked away down the valley, not seeing the brown and gold hills boldly defined against the blue sky, nor the beauty of the river as the setting sun cast a ruddy glow on the water.  Her companion’s words had touched an unknown chord in her heart.  When finally she turned to answer him a beautiful light shone in her eyes, a light that shines not on land or sea—­the light of woman’s hope.

“Mr. Clarke,” she said, and her voice was soft and low, “I am only a girl, but I can understand.  You are unhappy.  Try to rise above it.  Who knows what will befall this little settlement?  It may be swept away by the savages, and it may grow to be a mighty city.  It must take that chance.  So must you, so must we all take chances.  You are here.  Find your work and do it cheerfully, honestly, and let the future take care of itself.  And let me say—­do not be offended—­beware of idleness and drink.  They are as great a danger—­nay, greater than the Indians.”

“Miss Zane, if you were to ask me not to drink I would never touch a drop again,” said Alfred, earnestly.

“I did not ask that,” answered Betty, flushing slightly.  “But I shall remember it as a promise and some day I may ask it of you.”

He looked wonderingly at the girl beside him.  He had spent most of his life among educated and cultured people.  He had passed several years in the backwoods.  But with all his experience with people he had to confess that this young woman was as a revelation to him.  She could ride like an Indian and shoot like a hunter.  He had heard that she could run almost as swiftly as her brothers.  Evidently she feared nothing, for he had just seen an example of her courage in a deed that had tried even his own nerve, and, withal, she was a bright, happy girl, earnest and true, possessing all the softer graces of his sisters, and that exquisite touch of feminine delicacy and refinement which appeals more to men than any other virtue.