ery eloquent. What though there is a constant sense of
suppression and smouldering fire and not quite so much directness as
one might wish--"

"Philip's eyes are calm and steady and very frank," said the girl, "and
he is false."

"Yes," said the rain with a noise like a shower of tears, "yes, he is
very false."

The wind sighed. The steady drip of the rain, filtering through the
vines twisted heavily about the oak trunks, was indescribably mournful.
Suddenly the nameless terror that had crept into the girl's veins that
first night in the Seminole camp came again.

"When the Mulberry Moon is at its full," she said shuddering, "I will
go back to the van with Keela. I do not know what it is here that
frightens me so. And I will marry Ronador. Every wild thing in the
forest loves and mates. And I--I am very lonely."

But by the time the Mulberry Moon of the Seminoles blanketed the great
marsh in misty silver Diane was restlessly on her way back to the world
of white men.

Philip followed. Leaner, browner, a little too stern, perhaps, about
the mouth and eyes, a gypsy of greater energy and resource than when he
had struck recklessly into the Glades with the music-machine he had
since exchanged for an Indian wagon, Philip camped and smoked and
hunted with the skill and gravity of an Indian.

So the wagons filed back again into the little hamlet where Johnny
waited, daily astonishing the natives by a series of lies profoundly
adventurous and thrilling. Rex's furious bark of welcome at the sight
of his young mistress was no whit less hysterical than Johnny's instant
groan of relief, or the incoherent manner in which he detailed an
unforgettable interview with Aunt Agatha, who had appeared one night
from heaven knows where and pledged him with tears and sniffs
innumerable to telegraph her when from the melancholy fastnesses of the
Everglades, Diane or her scalp emerged.

"She wouldn't go North," finished Johnny graphically, his apple cheeks
very red and his eyes very bright, "she certainly would not--she'd like
to see herself--she would indeed!--and this no place for me to wait.
Them very words, Miss Diane. And she went and opened your
grandfather's old house in St. Augustine--the old Westfall
homestead--and she's there now waitin'. Likely, Miss Diane, I'd better
telegraph now--this very minute--afore she takes it in her head to come
again!"

Johnny's dread of another Aunt Agathean visitation was wholly can