half-naked, childish figures, he grew curious to see
who that one person just out of sight was.

One thing at last he did discover--that the hand awarding the prizes was
tanned like the hand of a boy, but that it certainly had white blood
instead of red in its veins. What if it should be the ward?

Elated, and full of mischief, he crept closer. If only he could be able to
give Overton a description of her when Overton came back to the canoe!

At first all he could see were the hands--hands playing with a bit of wet
clay--or so it seemed to him.

Then his curiosity was more fully aroused when out of the mass a
recognizable form was apparent--a crudely modeled head and shoulders of a
decided Indian character.

Lyster was so close now that he could notice how small the hands were, and
to see that the head bent above them was covered with short, brown,
loosely curled hair, and that there was just a tinge of reddish gold on
it, where the sunlight fell.

A race was just ended, and one of the little young savages trotted up
where the image-maker was. The small hand was again reached out, and he
could see that the prize the little Indian had raced for was a blue bead
of glass. He could see, also, that the owner of the hand had the face of a
girl--a girl with dark eyes, and long lashes that touched the rather pale
cheeks. Her mouth was deliciously saucy, with its bow-like curve, and its
clear redness. She said something he did not understand, and the children
scampered away to resume the endless races, while she continued the
manipulation of the clay, frowning often when it would not take the
desired form.

Then one of the sharp-eyed little redskins left his companions and slipped
back to her, and said something in a tone so low it was almost a whisper.

She turned at once and looked directly into the thicket, back of which
Lyster stood.

"What are you watching for?" she demanded. "I don't like people who are
afraid to show themselves."

"Well, I'll try to change that as quickly as I can," Lyster retorted, and
circling the clump of bushes, he stood before her with his hat in his
hand, looking smilingly audacious as she frowned on him.

But the frown faded as she looked; perhaps because 'Tana had never seen
any one quite so handsome in all her life, or so fittingly and
picturesquely dressed, for Mr. Maxwell Lyster was artist enough to make
the most of his many good points and to exhibit them all with charming
uncons