The maiden raised her head, and looked at him for a moment with tear-laden eyes.
"Oh! ever, ever!" she answered.
"Look, daughter," Mrs. Black said to poor Diana.
"Mother," she replied, in a firm voice, "did I not tell you that I should forget him?"
The squatter's wife shook her head, but made no further remark. The Indians had fled without leaving a man, and a few hours later the fort returned to its old condition.
The winter passed away without any fresh incident, for the rude lesson given the Indians had done them good. Prairie-Flower, recognized by her uncle, remained at Fort Mackenzie. The girl was sorrowful and pensive; she often spent long hours leaning over the parapets, with her eyes fixed on the prairie and the forests, which were beginning to reassume their green dress. Her mother and the Major, who were so fond of her, could not at all understand the gloomy melancholy that preyed upon her. When pressed to explain what she suffered from, she replied, invariably, that there was nothing the matter with her.
One day, however, her face brightened up, and her joyous smile reappeared. Three travellers arrived at the fort. They were the Count, Bright-eye, and Ivon; they were returning from a long excursion in the Rocky Mountains. As soon as he arrived, the Count went up to the maiden, and took her hand, as he had done three months before.
"Prairie-Flower," he asked her once again, "do you no longer love me?"
"Oh! yes, and for ever!" the poor child answered, gently, for she had grown timid since she gave up her desert life.
"Thank you," he said to her; and, turning to the Major and his sister, who were looking at each other anxiously, he added, without loosing the hand he held,—"Major Melville, and you, Madam, I ask you for this lady's hand."