“Have you not met Mr. Miller before he came here from Fort Pitt?” asked Betty.

“Why do you ask?”

“I think he mentioned something of the kind.”

“What else did he say?”

“Why—­Mr. Clarke, I hardly remember.”

“I see,” said Alfred, his face darkening.  “He has talked about me.  I do not care what he said.  I knew him at Fort Pitt, and we had trouble there.  I venture to say he has told no one about it.  He certainly would not shine in the story.  But I am not a tattler.”

“It is not very difficult to see that you do not like him.  Jonathan does not, either.  He says Mr. Miller was friendly with McKee, and the notorious Simon Girty, the soldiers who deserted from Fort Pitt and went to the Indians.  The girls like him however.”

“Usually if a man is good looking and pleasant that is enough for the girls.  I noticed that he paid you a great deal of attention at the dance.  He danced three times with you.”

“Did he?  How observing you are,” said Betty, giving him a little sidelong glance.  “Well, he is very agreeable, and he dances better than many of the young men.”

“I wonder if Wetzel got the turkey.  I have heard no more shots,” said Alfred, showing plainly that he wished to change the subject.

“Oh, look there!  Quick!” exclaimed Betty, pointing toward the hillside.

He looked in the direction indicated and saw a doe and a spotted fawn wading into the shallow water.  The mother stood motionless a moment, with head erect and long ears extended.  Then she drooped her graceful head and drank thirstily of the cool water.  The fawn splashed playfully round while its mother was drinking.  It would dash a few paces into the stream and then look back to see if its mother approved.  Evidently she did not, for she would stop her drinking and call the fawn back to her side with a soft, crooning noise.  Suddenly she raised her head, the long ears shot up, and she seemed to sniff the air.  She waded through the deeper water to get round a rocky bluff which ran out into the creek.  Then she turned and called the little one.  The fawn waded until the water reached its knees, then stopped and uttered piteous little bleats.  Encouraged by the soft crooning it plunged into the deep water and with great splashing and floundering managed to swim the short distance.  Its slender legs shook as it staggered up the bank.  Exhausted or frightened, it shrank close to its mother.  Together they disappeared in the willows which fringed the side of the hill.

“Was not that little fellow cute?  I have had several fawns, but have never had the heart to keep them,” said Betty.  Then, as Alfred made no motion to speak, she continued: 

“You do not seem very talkative.”

“I have nothing to say.  You will think me dull.  The fact is when I feel deepest I am least able to express myself.”