childish freak, but one that had nearly ended fatally. The lake was rather rough; Coral was not equal to the management of her unsteady craft, and a wave suddenly striking its side capsized it. Fortunately Keefe was at no great distance in his skiff, and saw the accident; he reached the spot just in time to seize Coral’s dress as she was sinking; but by this time her woollen frock was thoroughly saturated with water, and weighed her down so heavily, that he could not get her into the skiff without destroying its balance; so he had to leap into the water and swim with her to shore. As he reached the land, Denis Brady came to the beach, ignorant of all that had happened, and when he saw Keefe with Coral apparently lifeless in his arms, he was almost terrified out of his senses.
“She’s not dead,” said Keefe, “she’ll be all right in a minute.”
And resting her tenderly against a clump of cedars, he watched the colour come back into her cheek. Glancing first at Keefe, who was wringing the water from her long hair, she turned her eyes on the frightened face of Denis.
“I am well, now, quite well,” she said, “but thank him, Denis; thank him, he saved me.”
“You’ve saved her life, Keefe Dillon,” said Denis, vehemently, “and if ever you want help yourself, I’ll be true to you, while there’s a drop of blood in my body, or whether you want it or not.”
“I want nothing, only to let us be friends,” said Keefe. “Let you and I shake hands on it now; and I hope she’ll shake hands too.”
And after shaking hands with Denis, he offered his hand to Coral.
The Indian girl raised her beaming eyes to his, her face glowed scarlet, and catching Keefe’s hand in both her own, she bent down, and kissed it; then springing to her feet, she dashed off like an arrow. Keefe laughed.
“Poor little thing!” said he. “She thinks a deal more of what I did than it’s worth. Come along now, will you? and let us get the canoe and the skiff.”
The friendship thus commenced between the young trio gained strength every day. Coral no longer flew from Keefe, but whenever she saw him ran to meet him, with beaming eyes, striving by childish gifts and labours of love to express the gratitude that filled her heart. Keefe, of course, was pleased with her artless affection, nor could he be insensible to her beauty. The two boys soon became inseparable companions, and, though in many respects they were unlike each other, there were many points of resemblance between them, which, under any circumstances, might have made them friends. Both were brave, and spirited, courting rather than shunning danger, though Denis loved it for the excitement it gave, and Keefe for the consciousness of power he felt in overcoming it; they were equally sincere, warm-hearted, and generous; and though Denis was inferior to Keefe in force of character and intellect, he was shrewd, quick, and intelligent. So they continued fast friends till Keefe had passed his twentieth year, at which time his father died, leaving him the possessor of a fine farm, well stocked, and a large tract of wild land, every year rising in value.
CHAPTER IV.
One morning in June, two young men, each carrying a gun, might have been seen in the woods round Long Arrow, in search of pigeons. They were dressed in scarlet flannel shirts, white trowsers, and straw hats,—a picturesque costume, which well became their handsome faces. The one who walked first was tall, and strongly made; his forehead was finely formed, and shaded by careless locks of chesnut hair; his eyebrows were straight and somewhat heavy, and his profuse dark lashes gave the darkest shade to his clear gray eye. There was a frank and determined expression in his face, mingled with great sweetness, and, to a close observer, its calm, steady, unwavering aspect would have conveyed an impression of latent power difficult to describe. His companion was shorter and lighter, with quick, keen eyes, and a head of light curling hair, and features indicative of a blithe, joyous nature, though they were now shadowed by a much more thoughtful expression than they usually wore. These two young men were Keefe Dillon and Denis Brady. Keefe had stopped for a minute, to do something to his gun, when a flock of pigeons darted out of a beech tree, and passed close by Denis. Young Brady’s first impulse was to raise his gun, but he instantly dropped it without firing. Keefe uttered an exclamation of disappointment.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Wouldn’t it go off?”
“I don’t know how it could,” said Denis, with rather an odd laugh; “there’s nothing in it.”
It was Keefe’s turn now to laugh.
“Nothing in it! Why, a greenhorn couldn’t do worse than go out to shoot pigeons without loading his gun.”
“I don’t want to shoot pigeons; I’ve got something to say to you.”
“What sort of something?” asked Keefe, still laughing, yet struck by his companion’s manner.
“Well, I’ll tell you, if you will sit down. This place is as good as any other.”
So Denis threw himself on the last year’s leaves, which lay crisp and sere around him, and looked up again in Keefe’s face. Keefe stood beside him, leaning on his gun, and for a minute the two gazed at each other: then Denis turned away his gaze, with a sigh, and began to pluck up the scarlet pigeon berries growing around him.
“I guess you know what I want to talk about,” he said.
“I haven’t a notion; but it must be something awful, you look so queer. What is it?”
“It is about Coral.”
“What about her? Is anything wrong?”
“Not that I know.”
“Has she heard anything more about her father?”
“Only what O’Brien told her the day he came back,—that he fell in with a party of Chippewas, on Lake Lisnere, and that old Louis was with them, dying from the effects of a bad fall; he