“Does this fellow, Reynolds, know of your love?” he asked.

“No, no; he has not the least idea of it,” was the low reply.

“And he has not avowed his love to you?  Are you sure?”

“I am certain.  He has never given the least sign that he cares for me more than if I were an ordinary acquaintance.  But he is a gentleman both in word and action.”

For a few minutes Jim Weston stood lost in thought.  It seemed to Glen as if he would never speak.  The silence of the room was so intense that she was sure her fast-beating heart could be distinctly heard.

“I must have time to think this over, Glen,” her father at length informed her.  “You may go now and get ready for supper.  Nannie has been kept waiting too long already.”

Never before had Glen heard her father speak to her in such a cold, peremptory manner.  Slowly she rose to her feet and walked across the room.  Her head was aching, and she was glad to get away, anywhere in order that she might be alone, and from her father’s stern, accusing eyes.

She had almost reached the door, when Sconda stood suddenly before her.  She paused, while the Indian entered and walked at once toward his master.

“Well, Sconda, what is it?” the latter demanded, annoyed at the native’s intrusion at this critical moment.  “Anything wrong?”

Weston spoke in the Indian language, with which he was most familiar.

“Big White Chief,” Sconda began, “the Golden Crest has been crossed.  Another white man is here.”

“I know it,” was the curt reply.  “He came by water this time, so I understand.”

“Not by water, Big White Chief, but through the pass, over Crooked Trail.”

“He did!  Why, Glen, you told me he came by way of the lake.  Have you been deceiving me, girl?”

“Indeed I have not,” was the emphatic and somewhat angry denial.  “I am surprised that you think I would deceive you, daddy.  Sconda refers to someone else.  It is Curly who came by the pass, and not Mr. Reynolds.”

“Curly!  Curly here, did you say?” Weston almost shouted the words, and so fierce did he look that the Indian retreated a step.

“Ah, ah, Curly here,” Sconda replied.

“When did he come?”

“To-day.  He was caught as he came through the pass.  He shot, but missed.”

“Where is he now?”

“At Taku’s.”

Weston placed his hand to his forehead in perplexity.

“This is certainly a great home-coming,” he muttered.  “Trouble everywhere, with white men entering the place by lake and pass.  Look, Sconda, bring Curly here in one hour.  See?”

The Indian merely nodded.

“And get ready for the Ordeal at once.  Savvey?”

“Ah, ah, Sconda savvey,” was the reply, and with that he left the house.

Glen went, too, without another word to her father, and hurried to her own room.  It was a cozy place, fitted up with every comfort, and she loved it dearly.  But now it seemed to her like a prison.  She longed to throw herself upon the bed and give vent to her feelings in a flood of tears.  But she knew that her father would be expecting her downstairs, so it was necessary to make haste.