Though the sun, which awhile back had filled the hollow of palmetto fronds with a ruddy pool of light, had long since dropped behind the horizon, the girl somehow picked the homeward trail with the unerring instinct of a wild thing.  That one may be hopelessly lost in the deceptive flatwoods she dismissed with a laugh.  The wood is kind to wild things.

It was quite dark when through the trees ahead she caught the curious glimmer of a cart wheel of flame upon the ground, hub and spokes glowing vividly in the center of a clearing.  Curiously the girl rode toward it, unaware that the picturesque fire-wheel ahead was the typical camp fire of the southern Indian, or that the strange wild figure squatting gravely by the fire in lonely silhouette against the white of a canvas-covered wagon beyond in the trees, was a vagrant Seminole from the proud old turbaned tribe who still dwell in the inaccessible morasses of the Everglades.

The realization came in a disturbed flash of interest and curiosity.  Though the Florida Indian harmed no one, he still considered himself proudly hostile to the white man.  Wherefore Diane wisely wheeled her horse about to retreat.

It was too late.  Already the young Seminole was upon his feet, keen of vision and hearing for all he seemed but a tense, still statue in the wildwood.

Accepting the situation with good grace, Diane rode fearlessly toward his fire and reined in her horse.  But the ready word of greeting froze upon her lips.  For the nomad of the fire-wheel was a girl, tall and slender, barbarically arrayed in the holiday garb of a Seminole chief.  The firelight danced upon the beaten band of silver about her brilliant turban and the beads upon her sash, upon red-beaded deerskin leggings delicately thonged from the supple waist to the small and moccasined foot, upon a tunic elaborately banded in red and a belt of buckskin from which hung a hunting knife, a revolver and an ammunition pouch.

But Diane’s fascinated gaze lingered longest upon the Indian girl’s face.  Her smooth, vivid skin was nearer the hue of the sun-dark Caucasian than of the red man, and lovelier than either, with grave, vigilant eyes of dusk, a straight, small nose and firm, proud mouth vividly scarlet like the wild flame in her cheeks.

Aloof, impassive, the Indian girl stared back.

“I wish well to the beautiful daughter of white men!” she said at length with native dignity.  The contralto of her voice was full and rich and very musical, her English, deliberate and clear-cut.

Immensely relieved—­for the keen glance of those dark Indian eyes had suddenly softened—­Diane leaped impetuously from her horse; across the fire white girl and Indian maid clasped hands.

[Illustration:  White girl and Indian maid then clasped hands.]

“Do forgive me!” she exclaimed warmly.  “But I saw your fire and turned this way before I really knew what I was doing.”  Just as Diane won the confidence of every wild thing in the forest, so now with her winsome grace and unaffected warmth, she won the Indian girl.