curly-headed youngsters were playing. Several horses were grazing on
the short grass, and six red and white oxen munched at the hay that
had been thrown to them. The smoke of many fires curled upward, and
near the blaze hovered ruddy-faced women who stirred the contents of
steaming kettles. One man swung an axe with a vigorous sweep, and
the clean, sharp strokes rang on the air; another hammered stakes
into the ground on which to hang a kettle. Before a large cabin a
fur-trader was exhibiting his wares to three Indians. A second
redskin was carrying a pack of pelts from a canoe drawn up on the
river bank. A small group of persons stood near; some were
indifferent, and others gazed curiously at the savages. Two children
peeped from behind their mother's skirts as if half-curious,
half-frightened.

From this scene, the significance of which had just dawned on him,
Joe turned his eyes again to his companion. It was a sweet face he
saw; one that was sedate, but had a promise of innumerable smiles.
The blue eyes could not long hide flashes of merriment. The girl
turned, and the two young people looked at each other. Her eyes
softened with a woman's gentleness as they rested upon him, for,
broad of shoulder, and lithe and strong as a deer stalker, he was
good to look at.

"Listen," she said. "We have known each other only three weeks.
Since you joined our wagon-train, and have been so kind to me and so
helpful to make that long, rough ride endurable, you have won my
regard. I--I cannot say more, even if I would. You told me you ran
away from your Virginian home to seek adventure on the frontier, and
that you knew no one in all this wild country. You even said you
could not, or would not, work at farming. Perhaps my sister and I
are as unfitted as you for this life; but we must cling to our uncle
because he is the only relative we have. He has come out here to
join the Moravians, and to preach the gospel to these Indians. We
shall share his life, and help him all we can. You have been telling
me you--you cared for me, and now that we are about to part I--I
don't know what to say to you--unless it is: Give up this intention
of yours to seek adventure, and come with us. It seems to me you
need not hunt for excitement here; it will come unsought."

"I wish I were Jim," said he, suddenly.

"Who is Jim?"

"My brother."

"Tell me of him."

"There's nothing much to tell. He and I are all that are left of our
people, as ar