CHAPTER XV.

The duty performed of notifying the troop commanders of their detail, Mr. Truscott proceeded at once to rejoin the colonel, and found Captain Tanner just leaving.

“I am very sorry you will not stay and lunch with us,” Pelham was saying, “but I understand well enough that you will want every moment of your time. I shall be out to see you off, though, and shall hope to meet you again meantime.” Then, as the captain walked away and Grace smilingly welcomed Truscott and slipped her hand within her father’s arm as though to call his attention to the fact that luncheon was waiting, the latter stood gazing after Tanner’s receding form.

“The more I see of that man the more I like him,” he said, musingly. “He is one of the most soldierly fellows I ever met; and yet, do you know, Truscott, it seemed to me that he was anything but glad of this detail?” And the colonel turned and faced his adjutant, Grace still resting her hand upon his arm.

Before he could collect his thoughts for the reply evidently expected of him, Mr. Truscott became aware of the fact that Mrs. Pelham had suddenly appeared at the hall-door and was intently regarding him. His hesitation instantly attracted the colonel’s attention.

“Has he any reason for not wishing to go?” he asked, and there was an unusual tone as of annoyance in his voice, something sharp and unnatural.

Truscott colored slightly, but spoke slowly and calmly in reply. Involuntarily he glanced at Grace, and was surprised at the intent expression with which her eyes, too, were fixed upon him. Instantly, however, she looked away.

“Nothing, colonel, that he would allow to stand in the way of his going. Indeed, he will not thank me for admitting that the detail was in the least unwelcome.”

“Then you know he would rather not leave the post just at this time, do you, Mr. Truscott?” asked Mrs. Pelham, with a calm deliberation that perplexed him for days after, as again and again her manner recurred to him.

“Captain Tanner would welcome this duty very much at any other time, madame,” was the answer; “but while it is hard for him to go at this time, he would consider it most unfriendly in me to allude to it with any view to having another take his place.”

“Ah, I see that you are very jealous of the _rights_ of your friends. Some people, I fancy, would not thank you for such efforts in their behalf.” And the caustic emphasis on the words was so marked that the colonel turned sharply upon her.

“What earthly business is it of yours, Mrs. Pelham? Truscott is perfectly right. Now _do_ hold your tongue, and don’t interfere with what is solely my affair. Let’s go to lunch.”

“You will excuse me, please,” said her ladyship, with majestic dignity, looking at nobody at all. “_I_ am going to Mrs. Raymond’s.” And with that she swept across the piazza and up the row.

“Mother breakfasted very late,” said Grace, apologetically, as she led the way to the dining-room, “and she rarely takes luncheon.” But whether she took luncheon or not, her absence on this particular occasion was readily forgiven.

All the same, something akin to constraint had fallen upon the trio. The colonel had hoped to hear from Truscott a prompt disclaimer of any knowledge of a reason for Tanner’s not desiring to go on the scout just ordered, so, too, had Grace; but, to the vague distress of both, he had virtually admitted that he _knew_ of a reason, and would not disclose the nature thereof. Despite his efforts at cheery conversation, the colonel could not drive from his thoughts the effect of that strange letter of Mrs. Treadwell’s, and despite his long acquaintance with his wife’s reckless language at the expense of any man or woman to whom she took a dislike, her words of the morning had powerfully, painfully impressed him. All unconscious of the thoughts in his colonel’s perplexed head, Mr. Truscott felt certain that something had gone very wrong with the chief within the past twenty-four hours, and, for his own part, he found himself constantly oppressed with the contemplation of the effect the orders would have upon Mrs. Tanner. He strove to shut out the sorrowful picture and to fittingly respond to Grace’s efforts at being entertaining, but here, too, the effort was evident. What could it all mean? Ray’s mysterious words about Glenham, Mrs. Pelham’s extraordinary language and manner, the colonel’s spasmodic struggles to be cheery, and, above all, Grace’s odd, constrained replies to any allusion to Captain or Mrs. Tanner. Truscott was indeed puzzled. Verily, a cloud seemed to have fallen upon the house, and it was with absolute relief that the trio heard a quick, light footstep on the piazza, and the chirrupy voice of Mr. Ray inquiring for the colonel and the ladies. They rose and met him in the parlor.

Bright as a button looked that young gentleman as he blithely greeted them. Even Jack, accustomed as he was to the mercurial changes of his comrade, was unprepared to see him so radiant; but a cold plunge-bath, a change of raiment, and the enlivening prospect of the work before him had chased away all vestige of his morning’s dissipation, and Mr. Ray was to all appearances the jolliest man in the garrison.

“I have just left Captain Tanner, colonel, and I wanted to come in to see you and Miss Grace before shedding my regimentals and getting into war-paint, which must be in an hour from now. Jack, I’ve been to your quarters, and Glenham, who’s in the dumps about something, said you were here. Everybody knows we’re going by this time, and Glenham is ready to cry because it isn’t his turn. Colonel,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “may I see you a few moments? Please excuse me, Miss Grace. It is my only opportunity.” And with that Truscott and Grace were left alone.

On the centre-table were two photograph albums, one bound in Russia leather and stamped with the letters G. P. in monogram.

“May I look at this?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she replied; yet, as he opened it, she made an involuntary move as though to check him.

The first portrait was a cabinet-sized photograph of Mr. Glenham in his cadet uniform. For a moment Truscott gazed quietly at it without saying a word, but the tired look she had marked before when at Prescott had stolen over his forehead and eyes. Why should she excuse the prominence of that picture to him? Why make any explanation at all? He had said nothing; but Grace, coloring vividly, looked up in his face.

“The album was a Christmas present from Mr. Glenham, two years ago,” she said, hurriedly, confusedly. “That is where he placed his own picture.”

“I did quite as boyish a thing, two years ago, Miss Gracie,” said he, very quietly, while an amused but by no means satirical smile appeared under the curling moustache. “It is a most natural thing that he should seek to be first with you,” he added, gravely, and the dark hazel eyes looked steadily into her face as the words fell from his lips. No wonder that the deep-fringed eyelids drooped at once beneath the searching glance. Her color deepened, and she knew not what to say. _He_ knew that his words were tantamount to an impertinence, and yet, they had escaped him before he had weighed their meaning; he who usually weighed every word. He felt at once that, unexplained, his last remark was unjustifiable. He knew well that there was only one explanation which would condone such a solecism in a woman’s eyes; and he knew well that now, despite the estrangement of the past few weeks, broken only by the sweet memory of the yesterday’s ride, despite the open hostility of Mrs. Pelham, despite all rumors of her engagement to young Glenham, he loved, and loved her dearly.

Instantly he realized that in this ill-judged speech he had done injustice to himself; possibly, nay, probably, had offended her. The strong hand upon the album trembled visibly; he stood for an instant, silent, gazing with beating heart upon the drooping head and slender figure before him. In the adjoining room the deep voice of the colonel and the eager, energetic tones of Mr. Ray could be heard in earnest conversation, but in the parlor all was still. Oh, that dangerous silence! How many an avowal has it precipitated! Grace! Grace! where is your tact, your presence of mind? Why do you not break the spell? Is it—can it be that you have penetrated the veil of his reserve; that you divine his thoughts; and that your woman’s heart craves the confession of his love?

Impulsively he steps to her side, his dark eyes glowing, his lips firmly set; but as he speaks his voice is low and tremulous, and a thrill of delight flashes through every nerve as she hears it.

“Forgive me, forgive me, Miss Gracie. I had no right; I did not mean to let such a speech escape me——”

“I do not blame you. It was—why—everybody remarks it, I suppose,” she broke forth desperately, incoherently; “but the fault is not mine.” And once again the shapely head drooped upon her breast.

“Then it does _not_ mean that he is foremost in——No. Do not answer me until you hear more. I have no right to question.” He spoke hurriedly and low. Then with a sudden gesture he threw back his proud head and stood gallantly before her. “It is your right to know my reasons, to know why I so far forgot myself as to speak of such a thing as Mr. Glenham’s relations with yourself. I had not thought to startle you so rudely, but, come what may, I can brook this uncertainty no longer, for, with all my heart and soul, I love you, I love you.”

Both her slender hands are resting on the table now, as once again he bends eagerly over her. The room seems whirling round. She has heard, and a glorious, thrilling joy has seized upon her. She cannot speak. She dare not raise her eyes to his, yet she can almost hear the throbbing of his strong heart, and it finds its echo in her own. The next instant she knows that his firm hand is clasped upon hers; that he is waiting, waiting for her words. Slowly she lifts her queenly head, not yet daring to look up into the fervent love in the dark eyes gazing so yearningly upon her. She tries to speak, but all too late. Back from the dining-room, jubilant, beaming, absolutely detestable in his exuberant good spirits and undesirable presence, comes Mr. Ray.

“It’s all right, Jack; the colonel says that Glenham may go with us provided Captain Canker will permit. Use your influence with him like a good fellow. Let’s go and see him now.” Then Mr. Ray falters. He has had time to note the surging color in Miss Pelham’s temples, the deep glow in Truscott’s eyes, the unmistakable embarrassment of the former, the preternatural gravity of the latter. “Oh!” he continues, irrelevantly, as the gladness suddenly dies from his face and a wistful expression takes its place. “You have a raft of other things to attend to, I suppose. I’ll go; and I won’t say good-by now, Miss Pelham.” With that he vanishes, and the colonel himself appears.

“It seems that Glenham is eager to go with Tanner’s command, Truscott, so if Captain Canker has no objections I shall detail him.” He faltered a bit, looking somewhat nervously at Grace’s brilliant color as he spoke, but her cheek never paled, as he half expected to see it. “You might see Glenham and Canker also,” he continued, and the adjutant promptly took his forage-cap. Grace glanced hurriedly, timidly up into his face as he half turned towards the door, then impulsively extended her hand. One instant they met, the strong, sinewy brown hand and hers, so white and fragile. One instant she looked up into his eyes, and then with wild, exultant, joyous heart, he hastened on his mission. In that thrilling instant he had read his answer, and was satisfied.

Meantime, where was Arthur Glenham, and how was it that during this entire day he had not once appeared at the colonel’s quarters?

During the troop drill of the morning Mr. Ray, dismounting his men for a five minutes’ rest after a half-hour of sharp exercise, was occupying himself in a comparison of the different company commanders. Well over to the west of the plain Captain Turner’s chestnut sorrels and Tanner’s bright bays were having an enlivening though impromptu competitive drill. It was pretty generally conceded that these two troops were very evenly matched, and, except among the partisans of other companies, it was as generally agreed that they were much ahead of the rest of the regiment in point of snap and style in drill. Both captains were fine instructors and individually liked and respected by their men; whereas Canker, who really had enjoyed finer opportunities for keeping his men up to a moderate degree of proficiency, never could succeed in making anything out of them. He studied hard, he worked faithfully, he even furtively watched the methods of such officers as Tanner and Truscott, and strove to profit by what he learned in this way; but the cavalry officer is born, not made; and, handicapped as he was with the disadvantages of a bad seat, a bad hand, and a very bad temper, Canker found it all up-hill work. He had fine material in his company, but was desperately unpopular among them, so much so that none would re-enlist with him on the expiration of their terms of service, but would “take on,” as they expressed it, with other troops, notably Tanner’s and Turner’s. Ray’s, too, was a favorite command since he had been placed in charge; but its captain, now on recruiting service, had been very inefficient, and since his departure much of its time had been spent in mountain-scouting, where drills were unknown and discipline lax. It was Canker’s habit, when betrayed into speaking of the matter at all, to say that “the secret of the superiority of Tanner’s company was that he got his best men from me;” but in the depths of his heart he knew that statement to be absurd. It did not help him much to hear, as he did hear, in the inexplicable way in which such things are brought to our ears (who was it that said no man ever yet was so poor but that he had friends to tell him unpleasant truths about himself, or words to that effect?) that his men said that all they needed to make them the best-drilled troop in the —th was to have a captain who was capable of teaching them something. Altogether, drill-time was a sort of purgatory to both officers and men in Canker’s troop, and this morning was no exception. Ray quickly marked the sullen look of the faces along the line as they came trotting past him, the horses seeming as worried and jaded as the men; and as they halted and dismounted near him, it was easy enough for him to divine that Canker had been more than usually eruptive from the fact that Mr. Glenham kept at a distance from his captain, and stood moodily kicking at the turf. Mr. Ray himself, as has been hinted, had spent the greater part of the night in the card-room at the store, to the detriment of his pocket, but in no wise to that of his sunny temperament. He knew well that he had been vastly in Glenham’s way of late, and the consciousness of the fact made him all the more ready to condone the young fellow’s distant and constrained manner. Just now the dejection of Glenham’s whole attitude struck him forcibly. “I hate to see him look so glum,” he muttered. “Great Scott! if I had half his money, and a six-months’ leave, and the wings of a dove, I’d be off for the States so quick that——Hold on; would I, though, so long as she is here? That’s where he’s anchored; where I’d be, too, if I had the ghost of a show. ’Pon my soul, I believe I’ll go and give him a lift after drill.” And with another lingering look at his unconscious comrade, who had by this time thrown himself prone upon the ground, Mr. Ray remounted, and presently his animated voice was heard glibly expounding on the text of “centre forward.”

Drill over, he sought Glenham’s quarters, and found the junior officer kicking off boots and spurs in the rear room. There was no especial cordiality or welcome in the latter’s voice as he said, “That you, Ray? Sit down. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“No hurry, Glenham,” replied the other, with breezy good nature. “I want to glance over Truscott’s _Nation_. Got anything to drink?”

“There’s bottled beer in the sideboard, but I’m afraid it’s too warm. Jack has some undeniable whiskey, if you prefer that.”

“Where’s it at?” said Mr. Ray, briefly, and falling unconsciously into the vernacular of the Blue-Grass region.

“Lower shelf. There’s bitters and sugar somewhere there, unless Bucketts cleaned us out last night. He and Jack were owling. Excuse me, please, Ray; I can’t.”

“Sensible boy! May you never know what it is to feel a hankering for a cocktail!” And the tinkle of glass and stirring of spoon indicated that the gentleman from Kentucky was preparing some such beverage on his own account.

Presently Glenham emerged from his bedroom and found Ray placidly smoking, stretched at full length in Truscott’s great canvas chair.

“Glenham,” said he, “I’ve come in to talk with you a while. I’m no hand at beating round the bush, and want to go straight at it. Are you busy?”

“No,” said Glenham, hesitatingly.

“Then sit down; I won’t keep you long.” And Glenham wonderingly obeyed.

For a moment there was silence, Ray puffing nervously at his pipe. Then he laid it upon the table and leaned forward.

“Glenham,” he spoke, and his voice was singularly soft and gentle, almost as though he were speaking to a woman. “I think a misunderstanding worse than an open rupture; and for some time past, you who used to like me better, I believe, than you did any man in the regiment but Truscott, have been cold and constrained in your manner towards me. I am not going to ask you why. I know well enough, and I don’t blame you. Whatever may be the result of what I have to say to you, there shall be no excuse for further misunderstanding. It may not result in the restoration of your friendship for me, but it will relieve you from any indecision or embarrassment. Pardon me, now, if I speak of a very delicate matter. We all know that you are very much attached to Miss Pelham. Indeed, there are not lacking those who say that you are actually engaged to her. If this be true, I cannot excuse my conduct in the least. (“It is not true,” said Glenham, shading his face with his hand.) But up to last evening I thought it a matter in which—in which we—well, I thought it was a free-for-all race, owners up, and it might be a fair field and no favor.” He finished abruptly and in evident great embarrassment. Then he rose and commenced pacing the floor.

“Hang it, Glenham! if I am clumsy in my language it’s because—because the thing has struck nearer home than you imagine. I admired her from the very first, but I did not know what it meant until—until she nearly slipped from her horse yesterday and fainted. (Glenham winced as though stung, but still sat in silence.) I did not know what it meant to me, I did not know what it meant to you until she lay there so white and still, and you rode up with a face as white as her own. Last night my eyes were further opened. I won’t tell you how; it isn’t necessary. Only this, Glenham: if you think my conduct has been unfair or unfriendly, you can afford to forget it and forgive it now, when I tell you that I have no earthly hope in the matter, and that even if it were possible for me to win a thought from her beyond—beyond frank, friendly liking or gratitude possibly for the simple piece of luck yesterday, I would be a whelp to try and do it. Why, Glenham, I haven’t a cent in the world; I’m swamped in debt. What, in God’s name, _have_ I to offer her? Last night I left her house perfectly satisfied of two things,—that she was the dearest thing on earth to me, and that I wasn’t worth two straws to her or anybody else, probably. I haven’t had a happy night of it, man. I saw clear enough what was before me, and I went down and played poker all night nearly to keep from thinking of the thing, as though that would do any good. It has just come to this, Glenham: I’ve got to get away from here, and I’m going. I can’t win—I’m not worth the love of that sweet girl, and I won’t stand in the way of a man who is worthy and can. When I watched you at drill this morning it all came over me, how you must have been cut up by my goings on.” And now Ray’s voice was trembling, and a suspicious moisture was gathering in his eyes. “Arthur, because I’m not worth a woman’s love you need not think me unworthy a man’s friendship. Forgive me for the trouble I’ve caused you, old fellow, and let us be friends again.”

“Ray, I—I beg _your_ pardon!” exclaimed Glenham, springing from his seat, dashing his hand across his eyes and seizing the outstretched gauntlet. “I was a fool, I suppose. Everything seemed going against me. I thought—hang it! I think now that there was no chance for me. It turned me against everybody, I suppose.”

“Well, this ends the turn against me, does it not?” said Ray, with a wintry, cheerless smile, but still grasping cordially the hand of his friend. “I’ll soon be out of your way, and she’ll forget my—my ebullition of yesterday, if indeed she heard it at all.”

“Why do you go at all, Ray? What is that for?”

“Because then I’ll get away from seeing her every day or hour. Lord, how I wish there were a scout or a shindy! There’s going to be a horse-board mighty soon, and Wickham or Bright will help me on to that. It’s the only thing I know anything about. So now, I’m off.” And he turned to the door despite Glenham’s efforts to detain him. There he turned again, and, with a resumption of his old light, reckless manner, exclaimed,—

“’Pon my word, I feel more like a Christian since we’ve had this short talk than I have in months. Arthur, you have my blessing. Go in and win. That’s what I’ll do, too,—down at the store. Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, you know. The Prescott crowd rather scooped me last night, and I’ll go down and give them a riffle now.”

“Then hold on one moment, Ray. I mean to drink your health, if it _is_ against my rules. It’s nothing but sherry, but it’s sherry you’ll like.” And from a locker he produced a brown, portly bottle and some fragile glasses. “These only come out on swell occasions, Ray, but—this is one I’ll never forget.”

“Never mind that, Glenham. Here’s happiness and success to you. Your devotion deserves it.”

“Do you know, Ray, that’s just what gets me,” said the junior, slangily, but with sad earnestness, as he set down his half-emptied glass. “Devotion don’t seem to do any good. I almost—I almost believe I’ve been an abject slave since she—since Miss Pelham came out. It hurts me somehow.”

For a moment Ray hesitated. Then he too set down his wine-glass and pondered a few seconds, looking the while at the trouble in Glenham’s face. At last he broke forth,—

“I don’t know what you’ll think of what I say, but ’pon my word, Glenham, I believe you’ve hit on the truth. There _is_ such a thing as being too devoted, in my opinion. Look here! Did you see Truscott catch that rascal of a Ranger yesterday? You, you remember, went galloping after him wherever he went; you were all eagerness and excitement, just bent on catching the scamp; he saw it, knew it, and it was just fun to him to lead you a race. Then Truscott hauled you off and took the chase instead, and see how he managed it. He just let on to Ranger that he didn’t care a cuss whether he was loose or not,—might run to Halifax for all he’d do to stop him; he just rides off to one side, and sure as a gun the horse turns right round and goes running up to inquire what such indifference means. I tell you, Glenham, lots of women are just like horses; that is, the nice ones are, and I’m paying some of them a high compliment in saying so. Just so long as you go tagging round after one she’ll lead you a dance all over creation; it’s all fun to her: she’s sure of you, you know; but haul off for a while and leave her to herself, and let on that you’ve tired of that sort of thing and mean to swear off, you’ll find that it will bring her round if she cares anything whatever for you. If she doesn’t, why, the sooner you know it the better. Now I’ve been preaching, I suppose, but you try it. Get every scouting detail you can; don’t mope around the post. Now forgive my bluntness, Glenham, and—and good luck, old fellow.”

With that he was gone.

Some hours later Glenham’s servant entered and stood hesitatingly at the doorway. Glenham looked up from his writing. “What is it?” he asked.

“Big scout going out, sir,—two companies; but it ain’t our fellows.”

Down went pen and desk upon the floor, and, seizing his forage-cap, Glenham rushed forth in search of Ray and Truscott. Failing to find the adjutant at the office he hurried to Ray’s camp, where that young gentleman was rubbing head, chest, and arms into a glow after a cold hath.

“Come right in, Glenham. Didn’t I say the luck was bound to turn? or did I prudently refrain for fear it wouldn’t? This is going to be the boss scout of the season, and now’s your chance. I wouldn’t miss it for six months’ pay, and the Lord only knows what I wouldn’t do for that in spot cash.”

“Just what I came to see you about, Ray. Do you think you can get the colonel to let me go with you?”

“I’ll try it, anyhow. He will like you all the better for wanting to go. I was struck all of a heap for a minute when Truscott came down to warn me; but even poker pales before a chance like this.”

“How’d you come out?” asked Glenham.

“Nearly even, after all; and I’d have knocked some of those fellows endwise if there had been a little more time. I was just hauling in the pots when Jack called me out.”

Ten minutes afterwards Ray departed on his mission to the colonel’s, with what success has already been seen. Then a visit to Captain Canker had been in order, and there too the diplomatic Ray, after a long conversation, had carried his point, for Canker was one of those peculiar company commanders (and there are many who in this respect strongly resemble him) by whom the subalterns attached to his troop are regarded as a species of personal property, and it was not to be supposed that such a concession as was asked for Mr. Glenham could be granted without much demur and without a long dissertation, in which his shortcomings as a subaltern, and his captain’s long suffering, patience, and consideration as a commander, formed the subject of the monologue. Ray listened with exemplary docility, and Truscott, who had come in to assist according to the colonel’s directions, found that matters were progressing favorably under Ray’s management, and went off to see Glenham himself. Meantime stable-call had sounded, and all the officers were flocking thither, when Mrs. Raymond’s negro servant came running across the parade. He handed Glenham a note, which the young officer opened, glanced at the single line which formed its contents, changed color, paused irresolutely, and then turned and walked hurriedly back to Captain Raymond’s quarters. At the door he was met by Mrs. Pelham, who eagerly beckoned him in. Ten minutes after he appeared at stables, and with painfully embarrassed manner accosted Truscott, who was at the instant conversing with Canker, while the colonel with several officers were entering the “corral” of Tanner’s troop.

“Jack, can I see you a moment?”

“Excuse me, captain,” said Truscott; then stepping to one side with Glenham, and noting with surprise the changing color and downcast eye of his friend, “What is it, Arthur? Anything wrong?” he asked, kindly.

“Is the order issued yet for me to go with this scout?”

“Not yet. It will be right after stables. Dana goes too.”

“Jack, I can’t—go.”

For a moment there was dead silence. Then Truscott spoke,—

“You know your own business best, Glenham; but did you not ask Ray to see the colonel and get you detailed?”

“I did; yes. I—I cannot explain it, but I’ve changed my mind. Something I had not foreseen——” He broke off abruptly, utterly unable to continue, and without another word turned and walked hurriedly into the stable enclosure.

“What’s the matter with Glenham?” asked Canker.

“He has felt compelled to change his mind, and says that he cannot go,” replied Truscott, loyally striving to smooth matters as much as possible for his friend. “I’ve no doubt he has very weighty reasons.” And with that he went to join the colonel.

Soon after retreat that evening, while yet the lingering hues of crimson and royal purple mantled the jagged rocks that hemmed in the valley from the east, a busy throng had gathered in the open space between the quarters and the stables. Drawn up in single rank were the horses of the two companies,—Tanner’s and Ray’s,—while the men in their rough and serviceable scouting-dress were nimbly darting about their steeds, tightening “cinches,” or more snugly strapping the blankets or canteens that swung on the saddles. A little distance away, huddled together in silence, were the Apache scouts who were to accompany the command, and behind them all, scattered here and there over the sandy level, or clustering about the bell-horse of the half-breed leader, were the hardy, devil-may-care-looking little pack-mules.

Thronging about their undress uniforms and overcoats (for the December air was chill) were the men of the four troops who were not so lucky as to be of the detail, all envious of their departing comrades, and, soldier-like, nearly all indulging in much good-humored chaff at the expense of the envied ones.

“It’s old Skinnin’ Jim ye’re after this time, Micky. Luk out fur that beautiful crop o’ yours.” An allusion to the vivid hirsute adornment of Private Michael Mulligan that called forth a roar of applause. “Will ye lave me your boots, Hoolihan? It’s the other end of ye that’ll need a bomb-proof.” “Don’t you get kilt, Kelly; it’ll ruin the sutler entirely,” etc. All of which seemed to give infinite delight to the surrounding crowd, and not at all to discompose the martial objects of the sallies.

Presently Lieutenants Kay and Dana rode up and commenced a leisurely inspection of their commands, putting an end to the fun and laughter. Darkness was beginning to settle down upon the garrison, and lanterns were called into requisition. Presently again there appeared a large party, at sight of whom the men respectfully drew back right and left, and, escorted by a number of officers, Mrs. Raymond, Mrs. Turner, the inevitable Mrs. Wilkins, and several others unnamed in our chronicle made their appearance upon the scene, all intent upon giving the command a cheery God-speed upon its mission. Then came the colonel with Grace leaning upon his arm, and instantly she was swallowed up in the group of ladies, and for the time being deprived of all opportunity of seeing what was going on. She was aware of the fact that Mr. Ray was standing near her laughingly chatting with some of the ladies, and that Mr. Dana was waiting for a chance to put in a word, but Mrs. Turner really hadn’t seen anything of her for an age, and Mrs. Raymond had certainly thought she meant to cut her acquaintance, and Mrs. Wilkins was dying to know why Mrs. Pelham didn’t come out to give the boys a send-off, and between the three matrons and the two or three damsels hovering about, all talking at once as was their wont, or treading on the heels of one another’s sentences, Grace was in such dire confusion that she would have turned gladly to Ray or Dana for relief, when dead silence fell upon all as Mrs. Wilkins’s voice propounded the query,—

“But where’s little Glenham? I thought he was to go along.” And then all feminine eyes were fixed upon Grace.

Ray noted it, quick as a flash, and came to the rescue. “Hadn’t you heard, Mrs. Wilkins?” he said, with a tone of weary indifference, indicative of a desire to drop the subject. “The order was not issued at all.” And then, laughingly, “Miss Pelham, am I not to be allowed the customary luxury of last words before going forth to deeds of derring do? I want you to see my troop, anyhow.” And with quiet determination he took her hand, placed it within his arm, and led her out of the inquisitive group.

“Is Mr. Glenham not going?” she gasped, the instant they were beyond ear-shot.

“Mr. Glenham is _not_ going,” he answered, in a low, measured tone.

“Why?”

“He merely writes that an utterly unforeseen circumstance has induced him to change his mind. I have not seen him; he did not come to dinner.” And wonderingly he looked into her face. It was evident that she had heard the news for the first time, and was more than perplexed.

“I hope you will keep up your riding, Miss Pelham, while we are away. Tanner tells me that he leaves Ranger here,” said Ray, considerately, desirous of changing the subject.

“Yes; so Mr. Hunter told me. Where _is_ Captain Tanner? I want to thank him and to say good-by.”

“Not here yet, and time’s up, too. But I fancy it was hard lines saying good-by to Mrs. Tanner and little Rosalie. Here they come, though, Tanner and Truscott both.” And as he spoke two tall, manly forms passed, them in the gathering darkness and approached the colonel. “We’ll be off in a minute, Miss Gracie,” said Ray, and his voice lowered. “Wish me good luck.”

She felt that his hand, now clasping hers, was trembling. She knew with all her woman’s intuition that with all his forced gayety of manner this parting was no easy one to him. She liked him well, and felt grateful for the tact that he had shown, more than grateful for the skill and gallantry with which he had so recently rescued her from a probable fate; but though her heart beat throbbingly at the moment, it was not for him; and the deep, dark, glorious eyes looked beyond, though only in one furtive glance, and sought the taller of the two forms now standing by her father’s side. For an instant she forgot the young soldier standing patiently before her. “Good-by, Miss Gracie,” he gently said; then with quick, impulsive movement raised her hand to his lips, turned, and sprang to his horse. The next moment he was in saddle in front of his troop, and she had not even answered him. Irresolute she stood a moment, then she saw her father shake Tanner warmly by the hand, and the latter, putting his arm through Truscott’s, drew him to one aide. She joined the colonel.

“Papa, I want to speak to Mr. Ray; I haven’t bade him good-by. Come with me.”

“Why, certainly, daughter,” he answered, as he led her rapidly towards the spot where the lieutenant, seated on his horse, was addressing some words to one of his sergeants. “Here, Ray, my boy, Grace wants to say good-by.” And Ray was off his horse and on his feet beside her in less than a second.

“You _know_ I wish you all success and a speedy and sale return, Mr. Ray,” she said, as she held forth her hand. “You will not like it, of course, if I say that I almost hope you won’t see an Indian the whole time you are away.”

“That would be the worst kind of luck, Miss Gracie. Ah, Jack, is that you? What! good-by already? I thought you would see us off.”

“So I had intended,” said the deep voice she had learned to know so well, as Truscott suddenly appeared at her side. “Good-evening, Miss Grace. I had promised myself the pleasure of escorting you out to see the start, but found that you had already gone. Ray, I have to attend to something for Tanner. Good-by and good luck, old fellow.” And with a warm clasp of the hand for him, and uplifted cap and courteous bow for her, he hurried away. Then came the ringing trumpet-call, and Tanner’s soldierly voice ordering “mount.” The colonel drew his daughter swiftly back, the men swung into saddle, reformed ranks, and the next instant were marching off in column of fours down the slope to the south. There was no cheering, no noise, or confusion. In silent array they disappeared in the darkness, and the throng of spectators broke up and wandered homewards. For a few moments Grace was detained by her father, who was talking with Major Bucketts, and several of the ladies compelled their escorts to wait until she should be ready to start. Then, as they walked across the parade in a group, there were many invitations to come and sit a while on this and that piazza, but Grace desired to see what had become of her mother, and so declined. Mr. Hunter was walking beside her, and escorted her to the door. “_Do_ come out again, Miss Pelham, and walk out on the bluff with me. We can hear them as they ford the stream,” he urged. She ran up-stairs, knocked at her mother’s door. A peevish voice bade her enter, and she found her ladyship stretched upon the bed with her night-lamp on the table. “You are not well, mother?” she asked, gently.

“I am worried half to death, and have a splitting headache,” was the reply.

“Can I do nothing for you? Can I not help you at all?”

“You _could_ help me vastly by coming to your senses. Otherwise not,” was the ungracious reply, and her ladyship tossed impatiently over on her side.

Grace hesitated one moment; then saying, quietly, “I will soon return to you, mother,” left the room.

Mr. Hunter was waiting for her. Together they strolled out in the starlight towards the edge of the bluff in rear of the officers’ quarters. As they neared the slope Grace became aware of two figures dimly visible standing just before them; one tall, stalwart, soldierly, the other a slender, graceful, womanly form. She knew both at a glance, and stopped short. As she did so, loud, ringing, and clear, the trumpet signal—first call for tattoo—rose on the air. Her companion looked down in surprise at her abrupt stop, but she never heeded him. Her eyes were fastened upon the pair in front. Even as she gazed, even as the first notes of the call swelled upon the breeze, she saw the woman droop and sway; saw him bending towards her; saw him fold her in his arms, and could bear no more. “Oh, come away! come away!” she hoarsely whispered to Hunter, and plucking nervously at his coat-sleeve, turned and fled.