“Fort Mifflin Institute be hanged. I’m going hum to buy Deacon Popkin’s farm and settle down with Araminta.”
And home he went.
It was a beautiful day in spring time some years ago, and the emigrant train was proceeding leisurely through Southern California. It was within a few days of its destination. A few hundred yards in the rear of the company, a lady and gentleman were riding, their horses walking closely together, while the riders conversed in those slow sweet tones, so unceremoniously by persons under such circumstances. They were our old acquaintances, Fred Wainwright and Florence Brandon. There was a peculiar smile on the face of the latter, as she said, after a moment’s lull in the conversation.
“Do you suppose Mr. Fred Wainwright, that I do not know who you are?”
He looked inquiringly at her.
“What do you mean?”
“You are Mr. Frederick Ashland, of Missouri.”
“Florence! Florence, who has betrayed me?”
“No one, but yourself, on the night you so nobly rescued me from the Apaches. I penetrated your disguise.”
“Why didn’t you let me know it?”