"I'm not more than four or five miles from my home. I merely rode out
for pleasure. I little thought that my excursion would end thus. Where
do you live, sir? I don't remember to have seen you before."
"At the settlement?" he asked.
She nodded.
"No; I ain't a resident of no place. I'm as you see me--a hunter. I've
been at the settlement tho' many a time; in fact, I used to live on that
thar spot afore thar war any settlement. It war enough for me to know
they war a-comin', so I pulled up stakes and quit. You see, miss, it
don't do for a hunter to live among the clearins; besides, I'm a deal
happier by myself."
"No doubt. To a contented mind, such a life as yours must be a happy
one."
"That's it, miss; to them as is contented. Do you know I've often and
often puzzled over the expressin' o' that idear, and never could hit it;
and yet you've gin it in the snapping of a jack-knife."
"Perhaps you were going to the settlement when you saw me?"
"No; exactly t'other way. I war goin' from it. I've been down beyont
hyar to meet a friend o' mine. It ain't long ago tho' since I war in
the colony, and staid a spell there. Now I'm bound for the big Savanna,
that is, arter I've seen you home, and out of danger."
"Oh, no thank you, that's not at all necessary. I'm used to wander
about alone, although this part of the country is a little new to me."
"If you'll allow me, miss, I'll go with pleasure."
"That I cannot do. All I want to know now is your name?"
"Cris Carrol," was the hunter's reply.
"Then," said she holding out her pretty white hand, "Cris Carrol, I
thank you with my whole heart for what you have done for me. I will
remember it to my dying day."
Like a knight of ancient chivalry, the backwoodsman stooped and kissed
the proffered hand.
When he stood erect again, a flush of pleasurable pride made his rugged
face look as handsome as an Apollo's. It was the beauty of honesty.
"Bless you, miss, bless you! Cris Carrol will allers be too glad to do
a sarvice for one that's real grit, as you air. That I'll swar to.
Bless you!"
As she turned to take her departure, a sudden idea struck the
backwoodsman--
"Why, what a durn'd old fool I am; I never axed her for her name."
"You'll pardon me, miss," said he, "I'm sure you will--but--"
"But, what?" she asked, smilingly.
"But, might I ask you--I'd like to know--" here he stammered and
stuttered.
"You want to know my name; that's it, isn't it?"
"The very thing!"
"Alice Rody."
The old backwoodsman started on hearing it.