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It was long, long ago, very far back, that this happened. In those days the people used to kill the buffalo by driving them over a steep place near the river, down which they fell into a great pen built at the foot of the cliff, where the buffalo that had not been killed by the fall were shot with arrows by the men. Then the people went into the pen and skinned the buffalo and cut them up and carried the meat away to their camp. This pen they called piskun.,

"But why?—why? Is it because you love me? Oh, Mona! If it is that! At times I have thought so, and yet again I have feared you do not love me as—as I love you.",

"Ah," said the son-in-law, "you talk back to me. That makes me still angrier at you." He put an arrow on the string and shot at the old man, but did not hit him. Kŭt-o-yĭs´ said to the old man, "Pick up that arrow and shoot it back at him"; and the old man did so. Now, they shot at each other four times, and then the old man said to Kŭt-o-yĭs´, "I am afraid now; get up and help me. If you do not, I think he will kill me." Then Kŭt-o-yĭs´ rose to his feet and said to the son-in-law, "Here, what are you doing? I think you have been treating this old man badly for a long time. Why do you do it?",

CHAPTER XXVI.

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"He denies all knowledge of it. I suppose he has been bought up by the other side. And now what remains for us to do? That was our last chance, and a splendid one, as there are many reasons for believing that old Elspeth either burned or hid the will drawn up by my grandfather on the night of his death; but it has failed us. Yet I cannot but think this man Warden must know something of it. How did he discover Paul Rodney's home? It has been proved, that old Elspeth was always in communication with my uncle up to the hour of her death; she must have sent Warden to Australia then, probably with this very will she had been so carefully hiding for years. If so, it is beyond all doubt burned or otherwise destroyed by this time. Parkins writes to me in despair.",

"You are all wet. Do go home and change your clothes," says Mona, who is still sitting on the grass with her gown spread carefully around her. "Or perhaps"-reluctantly—"it will be better for you to go to the farm, where Bridget will look after you.",

"There is no need for regret, darling," says he. "I am heart-whole, and I know no woman that loves me, or for whose affection I should ask, except yourself.",

"You will come first and see Philippa?" she says, in a slow peculiar tone that sounds as if it had been dug up and is quite an antique in its own way. It savors of dust and feudal days. Every one says he or she will be delighted, and all try to look as if the entire hope of their existence is centred in the thought that they shall soon lay longing eyes on Philippa,—whose name in reality is Anne, but who has been rechristened by her enterprising sister. Anne is all very well for everyday life, or for Bluebeard's sister-in-law; but Philippa is art of the very highest description. So Philippa she is, poor soul, whether she likes it or not.