of
the shore that they had not drifted out of sight of in the last half
hour.

"At least he has roused us," returned the girl, "for I half believe I
was sleepy before."

"I believe it wholly," answered Stephen, taking his seat beside her
again and looking down into her face teazingly with a cousinly freedom.
But it was not altogether a cousinly regard from which Katie drew back
after a moment, tossing her head coquettishly, and with a heightened
color, glancing past at her friend beyond him, who sat dipping one hand
in the water and looking dreamily at the shore. Stephen Archdale and his
cousin Katie lived within a few miles of each other, and there had
always been constant intercourse between their families. When boy and
girl, Stephen, four years the elder, the two had played together, and
they had grown up, as people said, like brother and sister. But of late
it was rumored that the conduct of young Archdale was more loverlike
than brotherly, and that, if Katie choose, the tie between them would
one day be closer than that of cousinhood. The stranger who sat opposite
Archdale, watching them both in silence, was of the same opinion. He was
rather portly for his age, which could not have been over thirty, and as
he sat in the boat he looked a taller man than he proved to be when on
his feet. His dark-brown beard was full, his eyes, like Archdale's, were
in shadow, for he had drawn down his hat well over his brows, while
Stephen and young Waldo sat bareheaded in the August air.

"I wonder"--began Katie.

"A sturgeon!" cried Mrs. Eveleigh, the last member of the party.

But the sound proved the soft dip of the paddle in the water as a canoe
came toward them going down the stream. Its Indian occupant when he shot
by turned his gaze stealthily upon the gay party.

"How many more of your red savages are there coming to spy upon us?" And
the speaker pushed back his hat a trifle, and looked up and down the
river with an anxiety that he could not quite conceal.

"You've not been out here long enough," laughed Waldo. "There's no
danger; the red savages are friendly with us just at this moment, and
will remain so until we forget our rifles some day, or they learn that
we're short of ammunition. Shoot 'em down without mercy whenever they
come spying about--it's the only way. They're friendly so long as they
are afraid, and not a moment longer. For instance, why should that
fellow stop? He saw three men whom he knew were a