s I put the question. The colour upon her
cheeks went and came, like the changing hues of the chameleon. Her
bosom rose and fell in short convulsive breathings; and, despite an
evident effort to stifle it, an audible sigh escaped her. The signs
were sufficient. I needed no further confirmation of my belief. Within
that breast was a souvenir, that in interest far exceeded the memories
of either sister or father. The crimson flush upon her cheek, the quick
heaving of the chest, the half-hindered sigh, were evidences palpable
and pronounced. Upon the heart of Marian Holt was the image of the
handsome hunter--Frank Wingrove--graven there, deeply and never to be
effaced.

"Why do you ask that question?" at length she inquired, in a voice of
assumed calmness. "Know you anything of my history? You appear to know
all. Has any one spoken of me?"

"Yes--often--one who thinks only of you."

"And who, may I ask, takes this single interest in a poor outcast
maiden?"

"Ask your own heart, Marian! or do you wish me to name him?"

"Name him!"

"Frank Wingrove."

She did not start. She must have expected that name: since there was no
other to be mentioned. She did not start, though a sensible change was
observable in the expression of her countenance. A slight darkling upon
her brow, accompanied by a pallor and compression of the lips, indicated
pain.

"Frank Wingrove," I repeated, seeing that she remained silent. "I know
not why I should have challenged you to name him," said she, still
preserving the austere look. "Now that you have done so, I regret it.
I had hoped never to hear his name again. In truth, I had well-nigh
forgotten it."

I did not believe in the sincerity of the assertion. There was a slight
tincture of pretence in the tone that belied the words. It was the lips
alone that were speaking, and not the heart. It was fortunate that
Wingrove was not within earshot. The speech would have slain him.

"Ah, Marian!" I said, appealingly, "he has not forgotten yours."

"No--I suppose he mentions it--with boasting!"

"Say rather with bewailing."

"Bewailing? Indeed! And why? That he did not succeed in betraying
me?"

"Far otherwise--he has been true to you!"

"It is false, sir. You know not, perhaps, that I was myself witness of
his base treachery. I saw him--"

"What you saw was a mere accidental circumstance; nor was it of his
seeking. It was the fault of the Chicasaw, I can assur