“It may be so, but let us go home.”  Glen’s face was pale, and her eyes bore an anxious expression.

Reynolds at once swung the canoe around, and paddled with long steady strokes toward the village.  He knew that Glen was somewhat unnerved, and he upbraided himself for telling her about his dream.  Why are some people so foolish as to believe in such things? he asked himself.

“Suppose we go over to Sconda’s,” Glen suggested.  “I want to see Klota.  She is doing some work for me.”

“I understand,” Reynolds replied.  “You wish to find out how that bearskin is getting along.”

Glen glanced quickly at him, smiled, and slightly blushed.

“You saw it, then?  You recognized it?”

“Sconda showed it to me.  It is a beauty.”

“Do you want it?”

“Oh, no.  I have no place to keep such a thing.  It pleases me to know that you are anxious to have it as a——­”

“As a souvenir of my deliverance,” the girl assisted, as Reynolds hesitated.

“And of our first meeting,” he added.

Glen did not reply, but looked thoughtfully out over the water toward the shore.  She was glad that Reynolds believed she wished to go to Sconda’s merely to see about the skin.  But in truth, there was something far more important, and it was this which now disturbed her mind.  She did not wish to exhibit her anxiety, so the idea of viewing the bearskin was as good a pretext as any other.

They found Klota at the back of the house busily engaged upon the skin, which was stretched over a log.  She paused in her work and smiled as the two approached.  Glen spoke to her in Indian, and asked her how she was getting along.  Seeing Sconda across the street talking with an Indian, Reynolds went at once to him to discuss the proposed trip into the hills.  This suited Glen, as she wanted to be alone for a time with Klota.

“Is Sconda going with us on our trip?” she asked.

“Ah, ah.  Sconda is going,” was the reply.  Then an anxious expression appeared in the old woman’s eyes as she turned them upon her fair visitor.  “Don’t you go,” she warned.  “Stay home.”

“Why, Klota?” Glen asked as calmly as possible, although her fast-beating heart told of her agitation.

“Something might happen out there,” and the Indian woman motioned to her left.

“What has Klota seen?  Has she heard anything?”

“Klota has seen and heard.  Don’t go.”

“What have you seen and heard?” Glen urged.

“Bad, ugh!  Bad dream.  Bad white man.”

“Curly?” Glen’s face was very white.

“Ah, ah, Curly.  Bad, all same black bear.  Don’t go.”

Klota resumed her work upon the skin, and although Glen questioned her further, she only shook her head, and refused to talk.  What had this woman heard?  Glen asked herself, or was it only a dream?  She knew how much stress the Indians laid upon dreams, and how she herself had been so strongly influenced since childhood by weird stories she had heard from the natives.