“No, Harry, you did not,” quickly rejoined Maria Heywood; “but I know now whom you mean.  It was Waunangee.”

“It was,” said the ensign—­“I know your knowledge of that fact will change your feelings towards him.”

“They are changed—­even at this moment, and henceforth I shall be to him as a sister.  Ah! how ungrateful must I have appeared to the poor fellow.  I shall conquer this silly weakness:  I have misunderstood my own impressions, and it must have been that I have mistaken the influence Waunangee has had for that which is to be.  Call him up now, Ronayne, and I will cheerfully give him my hand, and promise to love him as a brother in return for the devotion he has evinced, not less for you than for my poor father.”

“Time enough, repentant sinner,” returned the young officer, at the same time casting his glance rapidly over the group of Indians, who were amusing themselves at various athletic games.  “I can see nothing of him.  Your evident displeasure,” he added playfully, “has destroyed his peace, as indeed you might have known from that plaintive ditty.  However, dearest girl, I shall see him soon, and make him promise to be present this evening at the nuptials of his friend and sister.  Nay, if I had not engaged Elmsley, I should insist on his being my bridesman.”

The only notice taken of this sally was a faint smile from his companion, who now descended with him from the rampart and proceeded to the apartments of Mrs. Elmsley, where her mother and herself had once more been visitors for the last few days.  Here they separated to meet again in the evening—­Ronayne directing his attention to his various duties, and looking out at intervals for his young Indian friend.

It was night.  No accident had occurred beyond the laceration of two of Ephraim Giles’s fingers, who having that day been presented with a new suit by the doctor—­the fac-simile in fashion of the old—­had been whittling almost in front of one of the guns when discharged, and lost, with the skin of his finger, both his stick and his knife.  The sultriness of the day had been succeeded by a cool and refreshing air.  Gaiety and content every where prevailed, and many were the voices—­male and female—­that exclaimed, as allusion was made to the ceremony all knew, to be in progress:  “God bless them, and make them happy, as they deserve to be.”  A large tub of whisky-punch, the gift of the commanding officer, had been brewed by Von Vottenberg, for their mid-day revel, and this, all had been unanimous in pronouncing the best medicine the doctor had ever administered to them; and now in small social messes, seated round their rude tables, covered with tin goblets, and pitchers of the same metal—­the mothers with their children at their side or upon their knees, and the fathers and unmarried men puffing clouds of smoke from their short pipes—­which they filled from two others placed on an elevated settle—­one in each block house —­which the happy Ronayne had given them on the occasion.