“Think you we shall find shelter and friends there?”

“The half-breed chief said there were yet white settlers upon the Saint Joseph, Mademoiselle; and the mouth of that river should be easily found.”

She turned toward me, a slight frown darkening her face.

“I wish you would not call me Mademoiselle,” she said slowly.  “It is as if we were still mere strangers; and you said Elsa Matherson was to be as your sister.”

I bent over her suddenly, all my repressed love glowing in my face.

“Toinette!” I whispered passionately, “I would call you by a dearer name than that,—­by the dearest of all dear names if I might, for you have won my heart in the wilderness.”

For a single instant she glanced shyly up into my face, her own crimson at my sudden ardor.  Her eyes drooped and hid themselves behind their long lashes.

“Those who sent you forth seeking a sister might not thus wish to welcome Elsa Matherson,” she said softly.

“’Tis a venture I most gladly make,” I insisted, “and would seal it with a kiss.”

Her eyes flashed up at me, full of sudden merriment.

“The unpaid wager leaves me helpless to resist, Monsieur.”

* * * * * *

The soft haze of Indian summer rested over the valley of the Maumee.  We rode slowly along the narrow winding trail that hugged the river bank; for our journey had been a long one, and the horses were wearied.  Burns was riding just in advance of Toinette and me, his cap pulled low over his eyes, his new growth of hair standing out stiff and black beneath its covering.  Once he twisted his seamed face about in time to catch us smiling at his odd figure, and growled to himself as he kicked at his horse’s flanks.

It was thus we rounded the bend and saw before us the little clearing with the cabin in the centre of its green heart.  At sight of it my eyes grew moist and I rested my fingers gently upon the white hand that lay against her saddle-pommel.

“Fear not, dear heart!” I whispered tenderly.

“It is home for both alike, and the welcome of love awaits you as well as me.”

She glanced up at me, half shyly as in the old way, and there was a mist of tears clinging to the long lashes.

“Those who love you, John, I will love,” she said solemnly.

It was Rover who saw us first, and came charging forth with savage growl and ruffled fur, until he scented me, and changed his fierceness into barks of frantic welcome.  Then it was I saw them, even as when I last rode forth, my father seated in his great splint chair, my mother with her arm along the carved back, one hand shading her eyes as she watched our coming.

This is not a memory to be written about for stranger eyes to read, but as I turned from them after that first greeting, their glances were upon her who stood waiting beside me, so sweet and pure in her young womanhood.