ught in a fierce thunderstorm.

As the young fellow strode swiftly along--he had hunted too frequently
in his own forests not to be entirely familiar with them--he began to
realize that the signal which his two girl companions had recognized
first was coming from the same neighborhood where he had had a previous
meeting with them. For as he drew nearer, once again the signals
flashed, though dimmer now because of the increasing strength of the
storm.

Curiously enough, as he strode along he was recalling the story of
Siegfried and Brunhilde which he had repeated to the three girls at
Polly's request. And the words of Siegfried's song came back to his
mind. This was not just an idle coincidence. The Germans are a far more
sentimental and music-loving race of people than we can fully
understand. And from the hour when Carl von Reuter had first seen Betty,
the beauty of her gold-red hair had suddenly made him think of his small
boy dream of this best-loved heroine in all the old German legends.
There was hardly a time in his childhood when he had not been devoted to
this story, which is usually unfamiliar to American boys and girls until
such time as they are grown and begin seeing Wagner's wonderful operas,
written about these tales of the Nibelung.

And in truth the young man found Betty Ashton as much encircled by fire
as ever the famous Brunhilde could have been and with the thunder and
lightning playing over her head like the final scene in "Siegfried."

The girl lay on the ground between two smouldering fires from which only
feeble columns of smoke were now arising, although there were flames
enough still left among the embers to reveal the outline of her form.
Nevertheless, though Carl von Reuter called her name aloud long before
he could reach her side, Betty made no response. A short time after the
reason was sufficiently plain, for she had fainted.

For half a moment the young lieutenant stood silent, staring down upon
her, too full of feeling to trust himself to speak. She looked so
utterly worn out and exhausted. Her thin summer dress of some light
color and material was torn and soiled and her hair had come unfastened
and was hanging loose about her shoulders, making a kind of vivid pillow
against the darker background of the earth. For when another sudden
flash of lightning followed the girl's hair was the color of the flame.

"Miss Ashton," Carl von Reuter called.

It was evident enough even in these