"So you think he will come back again?" asked Constance eagerly.
"Come back? Certainly he'll come back. He ain't made of sugar an' water. He'll not desart his flock long fer a pack of wicked fools. He knows the good Lord's with 'im, an'll not let his wark be ruined. I reckon that even now he's a-doin' his Master's will somewhar out on them mountains."
"I wonder much why he didn't tell us about Kenneth's death. Was there a reason?"
"Thar was, lassie. Ye was in a big trouble when he fust met ye, an' he kept it from yez both fer fear it would be too much to bear. He did it fer kindness sake, an' wished to wait till things settled down a bit."
"Are you sure that was his reason?"
"Sartin. Didn't he tell me so when we talked the matter over together?"
Constance sat for some time in deep thought, while Pete and her father talked on. Keith would come back. There was comfort, nay, more, there was joy, in the hope, and then she would thank him for his thoughtfulness.
Suddenly a wild cry fell upon their ears—a cry of sorrow and rage, which paled their cheeks and caused them to look at one another with apprehension.
"The Injuns! The Injuns have come!" cried Pete, rushing to the door. "My God, I feered it!"