Alfred Clarke staid late at Colonel Zane’s that night.  Before going away for so many weeks he wished to have a few more moments alone with Betty.  But a favorable opportunity did not present itself during the evening, so when he had bade them all goodbye and goodnight, except Betty, who opened the door for him, he said softly to her: 

“It is bright moonlight outside.  Come, please, and walk to the gate with me.”

A full moon shone serenely down on hill and dale, flooding the valley with its pure white light and bathing the pastures in its glory; at the foot of the bluff the waves of the river gleamed like myriads of stars all twinkling and dancing on a bed of snowy clouds.  Thus illumined the river wound down the valley, its brilliance growing fainter and fainter until at last, resembling the shimmering of a silver thread which joined the earth to heaven, it disappeared in the horizon.

“I must say goodbye,” said Alfred, as they reached the gate.

“Friends must part.  I am sorry you must go, Mr. Clarke, and I trust you may return safe.  It seems only yesterday that you saved my brother’s life, and I was so grateful and happy.  Now he is gone.”

“You should not think about it so much nor brood over it,” answered the young man.  “Grieving will not bring him back nor do you any good.  It is not nearly so bad as if he had been captured by some other tribe.  Wetzel assures us that Isaac was taken alive.  Please do not grieve.”

“I have cried until I cannot cry any more.  I am so unhappy.  We were children together, and I have always loved him better than any one since my mother died.  To have him back again and then to lose him!  Oh!  I cannot bear it.”

She covered her face with her hands and a low sob escaped her.

“Don’t, don’t grieve,” he said in an unsteady voice, as he took the little hands in his and pulled them away from her face.

Betty trembled.  Something in his voice, a tone she had never heard before startled her.  She looked up at him half unconscious that he still held her hands in his.  Never had she appeared so lovely.

“You cannot understand my feelings.”

“I loved my mother.”

“But you have not lost her.  That makes all the difference.”

“I want to comfort you and I am powerless.  I am unable to say what—­I—­”

He stopped short.  As he stood gazing down into her sweet face, burning, passionate words came to his lips; but he was dumb; he could not speak.  All day long he had been living in a dream.  Now he realized that but a moment remained for him to be near the girl he loved so well.  He was leaving her, perhaps never to see her again, or to return to find her another’s.  A fierce pain tore his heart.

“You—­you are holding my hands,” faltered Betty, in a doubtful, troubled voice.  She looked up into his face and saw that it was pale with suppressed emotion.