"Yes, dear. Colonel Zane has offered me work, and a church besides.
We are very fortunate, and should be contented. I am happy because
you're my wife, and yet I am sad when I think of--him. Poor Joe!"
"Don't you ever think we--we wronged him?" whispered Nell.
"No, he wished it. I think he knew how he would end. No, we did not
wrong him; we loved him."
"Yes, I loved him--I loved you both," said Nell softly.
"Then let us always think of him as he would have wished."
"Think of him? Think of Joe? I shall never forget. In winter, spring
and summer I shall remember him, but always most in autumn. For I
shall see that beautiful glade with its gorgeous color and the dark,
shaded spring where he lies asleep."
* * *
The years rolled by with their changing seasons; every autumn the
golden flowers bloomed richly, and the colored leaves fell softly
upon the amber moss in the glade of Beautiful Spring.
The Indians camped there no more; they shunned the glade and called
it the Haunted Spring. They said the spirit of a white dog ran there
at night, and the Wind-of-Death mourned over the lonely spot.
At long intervals an Indian chief of lofty frame and dark, powerful
face stalked into the glade to stand for many moments silent and
motionless.
And sometimes at twilight when the red glow of the sun had faded to
gray, a stalwart hunter slipped like a shadow out of the thicket,
and leaned upon a long, black rifle while he gazed sadly into the
dark spring, and listened to the sad murmur of the waterfall.
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