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Grey, Zane, 1872-1939

"The Spirit of the Border"

When he was quite out of breath he sat down and wiped his
moist brow.
A pink bloom tinged Kate's cheeks, and her eyes glowed with a happy
light; but George never saw these womanly evidences of pleasure.
"Of course I know you don't care for me---"
"Did Mr. Edwards tell you so?" asked Kate, glancing up quickly.
"Why, yes, he has often said he thought that. Indeed, he always
seemed to regard himself as the fortunate object of your affections.
I always believed he was."
"But it wasn't true."
"What?"
"It's not true."
"What's not true?"
"Oh--about my--not caring."
"Kate!" cried George, quite overcome with rapture. He fell over two
chairs getting to her; but he succeeded, and fell on his knees to
kiss her hand.
"Foolish boy! It has been you all the time," whispered Kate, with
her quiet smile.
* * *
"Look here, Downs; come to the door. See there," said Heckewelder to
Jim.
Somewhat surprised at Heckewelder's grave tone, Jim got up from the
supper-table and looked out of the door. He saw two tall Indians
pacing to and fro under the maples. It was still early twilight and
light enough to see clearly. One Indian was almost naked; the lithe,
graceful symmetry of his dark figure standing out in sharp contrast
to the gaunt, gaudily-costumed form of the other.


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