She felt her pursuer behind her, but the noise of the stream drowned the sound of his steps.

With a gasp, she reached the fence of her own home, and waited not to reach the gate, but sprang over the low rails, and up to the house.

She knew she was safe then, for not even Walkara would follow her into Mrs. Mary's house. But Sally had learned her lesson. She said nothing of her adventure, but after that, whenever she was sent to the creek for water, she unchained the great bull-dog, Jack, kept by the white Father, and took him along for her protection.

Two days later, while Sally was gone out on an errand, Mrs. Mary was surprised to see Walkara stalk through her door, and demand biscuit. She went to the box, and quietly gave him two

of the three biscuits there.

Walkara harshly demanded more.

She gave him the other

one; and still he demanded more. The white woman gravely told him they were all gone.

With a wicked leer in his eyes, he raised his bow, and pointing an arrow at her heart, he said, "More!"

The terrified woman looked into his eye, and read there the hatred and murder which burned in the brain beyond.

A soft scratching, and a low whine at an inner door, quieted Mrs. Mary's ears. Instantly remembering, she motioned, as if to answer his demand, and walked to the door of the woodshed beyond, as if to get the food he required.

With a turn of her wrist, she pulled open the door, and hissed, "Sic' him!"

A bound, a flash of shining grey, a low growl, and Walkara found himself pinned to the floor by a grim vengeance, whose fangs met in his quivering thigh. With a shriek of agony, the savage cowered to the earth.

The woman saw the dog trying to reach the wretch's throat; without a moment's hesitation, and with the fine instinct of pure Christianity, she sprang to the assistance of her savage

enemy.

Grasping the bow and arrows, she flung them on the bed, then,

with voice and hands, she called off her brute friend from her savage foe, and, at last, released him from certain death.

With heavenly forgiveness and pity, she seized the wash basin, poured hot water in it, and, with a soft cloth, she carefully bathed the wounded, naked thigh, and then applied some of the famous Yankee sticking plaster, which always stood handy upon her chimney shelf.

Walkara, with what gratitude his sullen, murderous spirit would allow, departed from the cabin, minus his bow and arrows, a wiser if not a braver Indian.

As he stalked away, Sally stole out from the woodshed, where she had witnessed the most of the scene, and where some new lessons in life had been taught her. It was she who had untied Jack, and she who had scratched lightly at the door.

Mrs. Mary was pale and weak, and her Indian maid shared every throb of her own emotions.

"He bad Indian," Sally muttered low. "All bad Indians!" Mrs. Mary had no trouble after that in keeping Sally at home; indeed the Indian girl could scarcely be persuaded to leave the house, even for the briefest errand, except in company with some white man or woman.

The days sped by, and time and work helped both Sally and her mistress to forget most of their fears of Indians. But Sally had no eyes nor thoughts for her own race, and scarcely for her own self. Her primitive mind was sorely troubled in trying to adjust itself to new conditions, new ideals. She vaguely felt, at times, as if the elements of her mind were in a state of chaos and gloom which no future could pierce and no hope illumine.

There had been developed within her the instinct of rude affection and crude honor; the principle of virtue had been taught her from her birth; but conceptions of a finer, more delicate, code of morals than the rough foundation principles inherited from her progenitor, the proud Laman, only confused poor Sally, and made her doubtful of all men.

She found infinite comfort in listening to the profoundly simple tale of her own people's doings and misdoings, read to her by Mrs. Mary, on quiet Sunday afternoons. And she labored hard to grasp the meaning of the strange black lines and curves which spelled

out this wonderful story, on the printed page of the Book of MorBut her fear and dislike of her own race seemed rather to increase than to abate.

mon.

Pretty, plump, little Mrs. Mary was surprised, one Saturday afternoon, a few weeks after this, to see in the fading sunlight across her doorstep a tall, somber Indian, clad in rude buckskin breeches, with a very ugly, "civilized" cotton shirt surmounting it, with the tail of the garment flapping shamelessly, and in Indian fashion, about his loins. His face was washed clean of paint and grease, and an old tattered hat was drawn over the head. It took several glances to prove that this disfigured, grim travesty of civilization was the Indian chieftain who had hung about her home mourning after Sally, a year before.

Sally herself knew him the moment he appeared, and it was her loud laugh of derision and contempt which first gave Mrs. Mary the clue to his identity.

Sally's own appearance was not without elements of absurdity. Her dark hair, once so natural and becoming in its free, flowing braids, now was pinned and twisted into a huge, unshapely knot at the back of her head. Her dress, of checked red homespun, colored and spun by her own slow fingers, betrayed the natural shape of her wild body, in the ungraceful, tightly-drawn outlines. And the crocheted collar about her neck was too round and deep for her full neck and shoulders, thus giving her a clumsy appearance. Sally was all unconscious of her own deficiencies, although keenly alive to the forlorn spectacle made by her whilom lover.

After her long, scornful merriment, she turned her back on him, and would not again look at him.

Mrs. Mary found that Kanosh had picked up some English words, and she managed to hold a somewhat extended broken conversation with the discomfited suitor. But Sally would not even look around.

The slow, resentful mind of the Indian chief worked around gradually to the conviction that he was being scorned-nay, not only scorned, but ridiculed-laughed at, and by a squaw. True, it was the squaw he loved, but she was still a squaw. man also recognized the subtle fact, that her scorn was not the

And the

simple scorn of a coy Indian maiden; the laughter sprung from a more complicated, deeper source; there was an under-current of supposed superiority-the superiority of quasi-civilization-in Sally's laughter, that stung the proud man to the quick. For a moment he hated her-hated his sweetheart.

He walked up close to her scornful back, and hissed in broken English, "You laugh now. Next time I see you, you cry!"

But Sally laughed on, for she was safe in Mrs. Mary's home. And the man strode out of the door, and turned his face southward. In the fall months, rumors of the depredations of Indians, led by Elk and Walker, came thick and fast from Utah valley.

At last the white Chief was called upon to go south, quickly, that he might direct matters, now become so serious, among the white settlers gathered upon Provo river.

He asked his wife to go along, and gave his consent, reluctantly, however, for Sally to accompany them as cook and assistant. A large party of riflemen were to accompany them.

Sally herself feared to go, and feared to stay. But she went, sulkily, it is true. Yet, as the swift-footed mules drew them out of the small new city, in the cool, dim, early morning dawn, she felt a new impulse stirring within her. It was the first time she had been out of Great Salt Lake City since her capture, and she had never seen the southern valleys.

As they rode along the dusty road, the white Father explained to her many interesting facts of the scenes about them, of the truths in the book of her people's history, and of their future destiny. He was as a kind, great-hearted father, who stood far above her; but she could love him with a sort of child-worship, and she did. Sally said little, but that little showed her white guardian that the poor maiden was not without noble impulses and some glimmer of mental awakening. But her bitterness towards her own race, living in the vales of Utah, was a mystery to the white Father.

Once, when Sally asked to walk awhile up the steep, long slope leading to the Point of the mountain, Mrs. Mary took occasion to tell her husband of the rude courtship of Kanosh, and referred to the fright both she and Sally had received from Walkara. But even Mrs. Mary knew nothing of the incident up City Creek; nor

of the reason why Walkara had sought the white woman out to threaten her.

The beautiful view from the Point of the mountain enchanted Mrs. Mary. And afterwards, the loveliness of Utah valley, which, even then, with its many streams, its broad, gleaming lake, flanked by meadows and cottonwoods, was like a Titan-jeweled landscape framed by circling mountains, threw the white woman into raptures. She begged her husband to halt, again and again, while she feasted her eyes on the rare green of the meadows, the glistening blue of the lake, and the flame-colored mountains about them. For the Indian summer was brooding over mountain and valley, filling all the gorges and canyons with purple and scarlet.

'Twas a strange experience for Sally! to have her inmost emotions of vague delight dragged out of her quivering heart, and named and minutely described by the vivid imagination of the white woman beside her. Even the colors she loved so well were classified and called, and she had scarcely before separated them in her own thoughts.

As they rode over the long bench across the valley, the white Father told them about the long, beautiful canyon through which flows Provo river; and then, farther along, he pointed out Squaw rock, on the frowning edge of the stony parapet, which guards the entrance to another smaller, blind canyon called Rock canyon.

And he told them the story, told by the Indians themselves, of the young Indian mother, captured in battle, who, with her babe slung on her back, fled up the long hill, pursued by a wicked chief who sought to dishonor her; and of how she reached, at last, the ærie where the eagles mothered their young. Then, as her enemy's head appeared above the bushes below, still in determined pursuit, she turned, and with an unearthly scream, which even now sometimes moans about the wind-swept crags, she dashed herself down the precipice, down, down, hundreds of feet in a single line, and was crushed to sudden, cruel death, on the sharp rocks below.

Sally shuddered, as she saw the jagged, gloomy outlines of that fateful crag, and listened in silence to Mrs. Mary's sad comments on the pitiful story.

There were some things Sally had learned to hate in her own life, and some things she had learned to appreciate in the new life