tle of "town." It is the town of Swampville--a name perhaps
more appropriate than euphonious. Upon this path, where it debouches
from the forest, the eye of Frank Wingrove becomes fixed--not in the
direction of Swampville, but towards the clearing of the squatter. From
this, it would appear probable that he expects some one; and that the
person expected should come from that side. A good while passes, and
yet no one answers his inquiring glance. He begins to manifest signs of
impatience. As if to kill time, he repeatedly rises, and again reseats
himself. With his eye he measures the altitude of the sun--the watch of
the backwoodsman--and as the bright orb rises higher in the heavens, his
spirits appear to sink in proportion. His look is no longer cheerful.
He has long since finished his song; and his voice is now heard again,
only when he utters an ejaculation of impatience. All at once the
joyous expression is restored. There is a noise in the woods, and it
proceeds from the right direction--a rustling of dead leaves that litter
the path, and occasionally the "swish" of recoiling branches. Some one
approaches the glade. The young hunter springs to his feet, and stands
listening.

Presently, he hears voices; but he hears them rather with surprise than
pleasure--as is indicated by another quick change passing over his
countenance. The cheerful aspect has again given place to a look of
disappointment--this time approaching to chagrin. "Thar's talk goin'
on;" mutters he to himself. "Then she's not alone! Thar's someb'dy
along wi' her. Who the darnation can it be?"

After this characteristic soliloquy, he remains silent listening far
more eagerly than before. The noises become more distinct, and the
voices louder. More than one can be distinguished mingling in the
conversation.

For some seconds, the hunter maintains his attentive attitude--his eye
sternly fixed upon the _embouchure_ of the path. His suspense is of
short duration. Hearing the voices more plainly, he recognises their
tones; and the recognition appears to give another sudden turn to his
thoughts. The expression of chagrin gives place to one of simple
disappointment. "Bah!" exclaims he, throwing himself back upon the
dead-wood. "It ain't _her_, after all! It's only a gang o' them rovin'
red-skins. What, in Old Nick's name, fetches 'em this way, an' jest at
the time when they ain't wanted?"

After a moment's reflection, he starts u