as we fell a few paces behind, she looked up at me with a most deadly challenge in her violet eyes.

“Now,” she said, “that you have driven off your rival, I am resigned to be courted� . Heaven knows you wasted opportunities enough at Guy Park.”

I laughed.

“How strange it is, Lana,” I said, “to be here with you; I in rifle dress and thrums, hatchet, and knife at my Mohawk girdle; you in chip hat and ribbons and dainty gown, lifting your French petticoat over the muddy ruts cut on the King’s Highway by rebel artillery!”

“Who would have dreamed it three years ago?” she said, her face now sober enough.

“I thought your people were Tory,”