ver find her mother. Allie was glad.

At length she fell asleep and slept long, then dozed at intervals. The
caravan halted. Allie heard the familiar sing-song calls to the oxen.
Soon all was bustle about her, and this fully awakened her. In a moment
or more she must expect to be face to face with Durade. What should
she tell him? How much should she let him know? Not one word about her
mother! He would be less afraid of her if he found out that the mother
was dead. Durade had always feared Allie's mother.

The women with whom Allie had ridden helped her out of the wagon, and,
finding her too weak to stand, they made a bed for her on the ground.
The camp site appeared to be just the same as any other part of that
monotonous plain-land, but evidently there was a stream or water-hole
near by. Allie saw her companions were the only women in the caravan;
they were plain persons, blunt, yet kind, used to hard, honest work, and
probably wives of defenders of the wagon-train.

They could not conceal their curiosity in regard to Allie, nor their
wonder. She had heard them whispering together whenever they came near.

Presently Allie saw Durade. He was approaching. How well she remembered
him! Yet the lapse of time and the change between her childhood and the
present seemed incalculable. He spoke to the women, motioning in her
direction. His bearing and action were that of a man of education, and a
gentleman. Yet he looked what her mother had called him--a broken man of
class, an adventurer, a victim of base passions.

He came and knelt by Allie. "How are you now?" he asked. His voice was
gentle and courteous, different from that of the other men.

"I can't stand up," replied Allie.

"Are you hurt?"

"No--only worn out."

"You escaped from Indians?"

"Yes--a tribe of Sioux. They intended to keep me captive. But a young
squaw freed me--led me off."

He paused as if it was an effort to speak, and a long, thin, shapely
hand went to his throat. "Your mother?" he asked, hoarsely. Suddenly his
face had turned white.

Allie gazed straight into his eyes, with wonder, pain, suspicion. "My
mother! I've not seen her for nearly two years."

"My God! What happened? You lost her? You became separated?...
Indians--bandits?... Tell me!"

"I have--no--more to tell," said Allie. His pain revived her own. She
pitied Durade. He had changed--aged--there were lines in his face that
were new to her.

"I spent a year in and around Og