These
years, so full of restrained wrath on his part, were years of peace to his
intended victim. Ellen Walton, save the fear of Indians, and the usual
trials incident to pioneer life, had spent her time in hopeful quiet, full
of love's anticipated bliss in the bright _future_.
Almost had she forgotten Durant and his threats. Pity she should ever be
awakened from her blissful dreams to dread reality.
Very early in the spring of 1787, and not quite two years since her
father's settlement in the country, on a very pleasant day, she ventured to
walk out a short distance into the forest, which adjoined their dwelling.
Becoming interested in her own musings, she sat down on the trunk of a
fallen tree, to give free vent and wide range to her thoughts. The reader
can, doubtless, imagine as well as we, the rainbow hues of her straying
fancy, as it reveled in the rosy bowers of love.
"Miss Walton, I believe I have the honor of addressing."
[Illustration: "Looking up, she saw a tall, dark man standing before her,
his eye bent upon hers with a look that sent the blood to her heart."--See
page 36.]
At the sound of her name, Ellen sprung to her feet, with a suppressed
scream of fright on her lips. Looking up, she saw a tall, dark man standing
before her, his eye bent upon hers with a look that sent the blood to her
heart, she hardly knew why; for certainly the individual before her was a
stranger, or one with whom she had had so slight an acquaintance, as to
remember nothing concerning him.
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