“Yes, Rodger, it resembles my poor sister Florence’s writing a great deal, though she was a better writer.”
“Then you have a sister?”
“I had, but poor Florence is dead now!”
“Are you certain that she is dead?” the ranger asked.
“Why, Rodger, you are getting excited,” she replied, with much surprise at the ranger’s question. “Of course I would not tell you a falsehood about my sister being dead, since it is nothing to you.”
“But it is something to me, Silvia; it is something to me; but, let us drop the question, before it gets to be painful. I must go and search for your father and that Indian woman who gave you the paper. Have you any fears to remain here alone?”
“None at all since I have such a noble companion and protector as Purle, the panther.”
“Then I will take my departure, entertaining hopes that the mystery that enshrouds us will be cleared away, and that I may yet insist for an answer to the question of my love for you,” said the ranger, and as he concluded he turned and left the maiden alone.
When his footsteps had died away in the distant hall, Silvia threw herself upon her couch and wept bitterly.