"Thank you," she exclaimed, smiling gratefully. "I am so glad you
found it."

The chain by which the locket had hung was broken, doubtless by
some movement while dragging Long-Hair out of the mud, and the
lid had sprung open, exposing a miniature portrait of Alice,
painted when she was a little child, probably not two years old.
It was a sweet baby face, archly bright, almost surrounded with a
fluff of golden hair. The neck and the upper line of the plump
shoulders, with a trace of richly delicate lace and a string of
pearls, gave somehow a suggestion of patrician daintiness.

Long-Hair looked keenly into Alice's eyes, when she stooped to
take the locket from his hand, but said nothing.

She and Jean now hurried away, and, so vigorously did they paddle
the pirogue, that the sky was yet red in the west when they
reached home and duly received their expected scolding from Madame
Roussillon.

Alice sealed Jean's lips as to their adventure; for she had made
up her mind to save Long-Hair if possible, and she felt sure that
the only way to do it would be to trust no one but Father Beret.

It turned out that Long-Hair's wound was neither a broken bone nor
a cut artery. The flesh of his leg, midway between the hip and the
knee, was pierced; the bullet had bored a neat hole clean through.
Father Beret took the case in hand, and with no little surgical
skill proceeded to set the big Indian upon his feet again. The