t thus that an Indian girl makes love. She is simply soliciting
the pale-face to purchase. In this design she is almost certain to be
successful. The pouch proclaims its value, and promises to sell itself.
Certainly it is a beautiful object--with its quills of brilliant dye,
and richly-embroidered shoulder-strap. Perhaps no object could be held
up before the eyes of Frank Wingrove more likely to elicit his
admiration.

He sees and admires. He knows its value. It is cheap at a dollar;
besides, he was just thinking of treating himself to such a one. His
old catskin is worn and greasy. He has grown fastidious of late--for
reasons that may be guessed. This beautiful pouch would sit well over
his new hunting-shirt, and trick him out to a T. In the eyes of
Marian--

His desire to become the possessor of the coveted article hinders him
from continuing the reflection. Fortunately his old pouch contains the
required coin; and, in another instant, a silver dollar glances in the
palm of the Indian girl.

But the "goods" are not delivered over in the ordinary manner. A
thought seems to strike the fair huckster; and she stands for a moment
gazing upon the face of the handsome purchaser. Is it curiosity? Or is
it, perhaps, some softer emotion that has suddenly germinated in her
soul? Her hesitation lasts only for an instant. With a smile that
seems to solicit, she approaches nearer to the hunter. The pouch is
held aloft, with the strap extended between her hands. Her design is
evident--she purposes to adjust it upon his shoulders.

The young hunter does not repel the proffered service--how could he? It
would not be Frank Wingrove to do so. On the contrary, he leans his
body forward to aid in the action. The attitude brings their faces
almost close together: their lips are within two inches of touching!
For a moment the girl appears to have forgotten her purpose, or else she
executes it in a manner sufficiently _maladroit_. In passing the strap
over the high coon-skin cap, her fingers become entangled in the brown
curls beneath. Her eyes are not directed that way: they are gazing with
a basilisk glance into the eyes of the hunter.

The attitude of Wingrove is at first shrinking; but a slight smile
curling upon his lip, betokens that there is not much pain in the
situation. A reflection, however, made at the moment, chases away the
smile. It is this:--"'Tarnal earthquakes! were Marian to see me now!
She'd