These achievements occupied about two years in their accomplishment, at the end of which period, Durant, having established himself pretty fairly in the good graces of his red brethren, felt as though the time had arrived for him to put in execution his long intended project; for, be it known, his desire for vengeance had neither slumbered nor died during the two years, but was the grand moving impulse to every important act.  These years, so full of restrained wrath on his part, were years of peace to his intended victim.  Ellen Walton, save the fear of Indians, and the usual trials incident to pioneer life, had spent her time in hopeful quiet, full of love’s anticipated bliss in the bright future.

Almost had she forgotten Durant and his threats.  Pity she should ever be awakened from her blissful dreams to dread reality.

Very early in the spring of 1787, and not quite two years since her father’s settlement in the country, on a very pleasant day, she ventured to walk out a short distance into the forest, which adjoined their dwelling.  Becoming interested in her own musings, she sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, to give free vent and wide range to her thoughts.  The reader can, doubtless, imagine as well as we, the rainbow hues of her straying fancy, as it reveled in the rosy bowers of love.

“Miss Walton, I believe I have the honor of addressing.”

[Illustration:  “Looking up, she saw a tall, dark man standing before her, his eye bent upon hers with a look that sent the blood to her heart.”—­See page 36.]

At the sound of her name, Ellen sprung to her feet, with a suppressed scream of fright on her lips.  Looking up, she saw a tall, dark man standing before her, his eye bent upon hers with a look that sent the blood to her heart, she hardly knew why; for certainly the individual before her was a stranger, or one with whom she had had so slight an acquaintance, as to remember nothing concerning him.  While her mind was running over all the passing acquaintances she had ever made, and endeavoring among them to put the personage before her, he continued to scan her countenance with a steady gaze, as if to read her thoughts, which divining, he continued: 

“I perceive you do not remember me, though we have met before.  My memory is not so treacherous; and, beside, your looks made a lasting impression on my mind, an impression that time can never efface or obliterate; and to this impression you are indebted for my present visit—­an unceremonious one, I must confess.”

At this point of his discourse Ellen made a movement as if to retrace her steps homeward, seeing which, he went on: 

“Do not be impatient, fair maiden, or in haste to go, for I have that to tell thee which is of the utmost importance both to thy present and future welfare.”

This adoption of the familiar and solemn style of address, had the effect rather to increase than diminish the tremors about the girl’s heart; yet she silently awaited his words: