he Indian camp only last night.
Surely you are not a savage?"

"That I know not. I sometimes fear the savage is part of all our
natures, and that I am far removed from the divine image of my Master.
But I am not an Indian, if that is what you mean. If to be white is a
grace in your sight, I am of that race, though there are times when I
would have been prouder to wear the darker skin. The red men kill, but
they do not lie, nor deceive women. I remember you now,--you were with
the White Chief from Dearborn, and tried to approach me when Little
Sauk interfered. Why did you do that?"

Her manner and words were puzzling, but I knew no better way than to
answer frankly.

"I sought Elsa Matherson,--are you she?"

The girl--for she could certainly have been little more--started
perceptibly at the name, and bent eagerly forward, peering with new
interest into my face.

"Elsa Matherson?" she questioned, dwelling upon the words as though
they awoke memories. "It is indeed long since I have heard the name.
Where knew you her?"

"I have never known her; but her father was my father's friend, and I
sought her because of that friendship."

"Here?"

"At Fort Dearborn, where she was left an orphan."

"How strange! how very strange indeed! 'T is a small world. Elsa
Matherson!--and at Dearborn?"

Was it acting, for some purpose unknown to me,--or what might be the
secret of these strange expressions?

"Then you are not the one I seek?"

She hesitated, looking keenly toward me through the dim light.

"I have not said who I may be," she answered evasively. "Whatever name
I may once have borne was long ago forgotten, and to the simple
children about me I am only Sister Celeste. 'T is enough to live by in
this wilderness, and the recording angel of God knows whether even that
is worthy. But I have been waiting to learn why you are here, creeping
through the bushes like a savage! Nor do I believe you to be
altogether alone. Was there not one with you yonder at the house? Why
did he cry out so loudly, and fall?"

"He imagined he saw a ghost within. He claimed to have recognized the
face of a dead woman he once knew."

"A dead woman? What is the man's name? Who is he?"

"Captain de Croix, an officer of the French army."

She sighed quickly, as if relieved, one hand pressed against her
forehead, and sat thinking.

"I know not the name, but it seems strange that the chance sight of my
face should work suc