"Sometime," said the old man, "I will tell you my history. Then you will not wonder that I choose to live alone!" Then fearing that the scout had detected the difference in his speech, into which he had momentarily been betrayed, he changed to his customary vernacular.
"Now that yer know ther way, yer kin come down an' help yerself any time. An' now less git back, ur ther rest uv ther folks 'll be wonderin' whar we ar'."
In a short time they presented themselves before the fire; but it is doubtful if Curtiss or the Indian girl had missed them at all.
They were seated where the scout had left them, and seemed no nearer the end of their story than when they first began.
That old, old story, forever new!
When will men cease to tell it? and when will women weary of listening?
At first the scout was inclined to think that Curtiss was trifling with the girl's affections; but he became satisfied that the young man was "really and truly" in love.
Thus far they had given the lie to the remark of Shakspeare (or some other man) that "the course of true love never runs smooth."
The colored gal sat before the fire, smoking her pipe, and utterly oblivious to all earthy matters, croning the air to some old hymn she had learned—where?
She was never more surprised in her life than when the old trapper gave her a slap upon the back, and said: