The long wait for the coming of the big transports with the regulars was over.  For the first time in history America was sending her soldiery past the pyramids and through the Indian sea, landing them, after forty days and nights of voyaging, upon the low, flat shores that hem Manila Bay, and shoving them out to the hostile front before their sea-legs could reach the swing and stride of the marching step; yet, to all appearance, as unconcernedly at home as though they had been campaigning in the Philippines since the date of their enlistment.  This, to be sure, in the case of more than half their number, would have given them scant time in which to look about them, since raw recruits were more numerous than seasoned men.  But no matter what may be his lack of drill or preparation the average Anglo-Saxon never seems to know the time when he doesn’t know how to fight.  So, with all the easy assurance of a veteran, our Yankee “Tommies” wriggled into their blanket rolls and trudged away to the posts assigned them; and once more the army assumed the aggressive.

There were changes in the composition of the forces even before the move began.  The Dudes and the “Toughs” parted company; and the former, with Stanley Armstrong once more riding silent at their head, joined forces with Stewart’s riddled regiment up the railway toward Malolos.  Colonel Frost had succeeded in convincing the surgeons that he would be as out of place as his name itself in such a clime and climate, and was in daily expectation of an order home.  Billy Gray, mending only slowly, had been sent to Corregidor, where the bracing breezes of the China Sea drove their tonic forces through his lungs and veins, and the faintly rising hue of coming health back into his hollow cheeks.  The boy had been harder hit than seemed the case at first, said the fellows of the ­teenth; but the wise young surgeon of the “Second Reserve” and a grave-faced colonel of infantry could have told of causes little dreamed of in the regiment ­were either given to telling the half of what he knew.

That something most unusual had occurred in the room of Mr. Gray the day that the sad-faced, kind old general visited the hospital at least half a dozen patients could have told; for an attendant went running for one of the women nurses, and the doctor himself hurried to the scene.  It was on his arm that, half an hour later, Mrs. Garrison slowly descended the stairs, her flimsy white veil down, and silently bowed her thanks and adieux as the doctor closed the door of her carriage and nodded to the little coachman.  It was the doctor who suggested to Colonel Frost that Manila air was not conducive to his wife’s recovery, and recommended Nagasaki as the place for her recuperation until he could join her and take her home.  The Esmeralda bore the White Sisters over Hongkong way within a week; and they left without flourish of trumpet, with hardly the flutter of a handkerchief; for, since the battle of the 5th of February, neither had been seen upon the Luneta.  Their women friends were very few; the men they knew were mainly at the front.  The story got out somehow that Garrison had asked to be relieved from further duty as aide-de-camp, and returned to duty with his regiment, and that Drayton would not have it.  The General’s manner toward that hard-working staff officer, though often preoccupied as of old, grew even kinder.  He did not see the sisters off for China, he was “far too busy” was the explanation; but he offered Garrison a fortnight’s leave, and urged his taking it, and was obviously troubled when Garrison declined.  “You need rest and the change of air more than any man I know,” said he; but Garrison replied that change of scene and air would not help him.

There were two young fellows in khaki uniforms landed from the hospital launch on the back trip from Corregidor one warm March day.  One wore the badge of a subaltern of the ­teenth Regulars, the other the chevrons of a corporal and the hatband of a famous fighting regiment of volunteers; yet the same carriage bore them swiftly through the sentineled streets of the walled city, and the guards at the Ayuntamiento sprang to their arms and formed ranks at sight of it, then dispersed at the low-toned order of its commander when it was seen that, instead of stopping at the curb and discharging an elderly general officer, it whirled straight by and held two youths in field uniform.

“One of ’em’s young Gray, of the ­teenth; he that was hit in the charge on the Pasay road,” said the officer of the guard to a comrade.  “But who the devil’s the other?  He had corporal’s chevrons on.  Some fellow just got a commission, perhaps.”  And that was the only way the soldier could account for a corporal riding with a commissioned officer in a general’s carriage.  They had a long whirl ahead of them, these two; and the corporal told Gray, as he already had the General and Colonel Armstrong, much of the story of his friendship for “Pat” Latrobe, of that poor fellow’s illness at San Francisco, and all the trouble it cost his friend and chum.  There was a strong bond between them, he explained; and the blush of shame that stole up in the face of the narrator found instant answer in that of Billy Gray.  Determined to see service at the front and not return to punishment in his regiment, never dreaming that, in quitting a corps doomed apparently to inaction at home, and joining one going straight to the enemy’s country, he was committing the grave crime of desertion, “Gov.”  Prime had spoken to some men in Stewart’s regiment and was bidden to come along and fetch his friend; for they were just as ignorant as he.  Having still considerable money “Gov.” had bought civilian clothes, and all the supplies they needed while about town, and hired a boat that rowed them, with certain items contraband of war, to the dark side of the transport as nightfall came; and they were easily smuggled aboard and into uniform, and then, during the few days’ stay at Honolulu, were formally enlisted and no embarrassing questions asked.

And now poor Pat was gone and Prime’s father had been cabling for him to return home; but there was that awkward matter about the desertion.  General Drayton was trying to have it straightened out at Washington; for he had been kindness itself the day of his visit to the hospital, where almost his first act had been to seek out the wounded young soldier who had been his beloved nephew’s boon companion, and at one time sole support.  The sentry was relieved of his surveillance, and Corporal Norton transferred to Corregidor to recuperate; and now that both lads were well on the road to recovery, Drayton had sent for them.  Strictly speaking, some one should have seen to it that Corporal Norton of the Volunteers was shifted back to Private Norton of the ­teenth, and the chevrons stripped from his sleeves; but no one had cared to interfere where the worsted was concerned, especially as the boy had won such praise for bravery at Concordia Bridge.  So there the chevrons stood when the two were ushered into the presence of the gray-haired chief; and he arose, and stepping forward, held out a hand to each.

“I want you, boys,” said he, “to be ready to take the next transport home.  The doctors say you need a sea voyage, Gray; so there is the order.  The doctors say your father needs you, Prime; and the record will be duly straightened out in Washington ­the charge of desertion, no doubt, will be removed.  It’s a matter of influence.  To-night you dine with me here; and I have asked your good friend, Colonel Armstrong, to come.”

Again the blood rose guiltily to Billy’s cheek.  Not yet had he made his peace with his conscience, and that valued counselor and invaluable friend from whose good graces he seemed to have fallen entirely.  Not once had opportunity been afforded in which to speak and open his heart to him.  As for writing, that seemed impossible.  Billy could handle almost any implement better than a pen.  But even in the few minutes left him in which to think he knew that now at least he must “face the music,” like the man his father would have him be, even though it took more nerve than did that perilous dash on the Tagal works that Sunday morning.  Billy would rather do that twice over than have to face Armstrong’s stern, searching eyes, and hear again the cold, almost contemptuous tone in which the colonel said to him the day the doctor led his vanquished and hysterical charmer from the room:  “Don’t try to thank, man, try to think what you risk ­what you deserve to lose ­for putting yourself in the power of such a woman.”

From that day until this, here on the banks of the swift-running Pasig, they had not met at all; and it seemed to Gray as though Armstrong had aged a year.  There was a lump in his throat as he went straight up to the colonel, his blue eyes never flinching, though they seemed to fill, and bravely spoke.  “Colonel Armstrong, I have an explanation that I owe to you.  Will you give me a few minutes on the gallery?”

“Certainly, Gray,” was the calm reply; and the youngster led the way.

It was a broken story.  It told of his desperation and misery through Canker’s persecution, of his severe illness, then of the utter weakness and prostration; then her coming, and with her comfort, peace, reassurance, gradual return to health, and with that, gradual surrender to his nurse’s fascinations.  Then her demand upon him, her plea, her final insistence that he should prove his gratitude and devotion by getting for her those dangerous letters, and his weakness in letting her believe he could and would do so.  That was the situation when they went on to Manila; and Armstrong knew the rest ­knew that but for his timely aid she might have triumphed over his repentance; but Armstrong had come, had vanquished her and poor Latrobe’s last wishes were observed.  The fateful packet containing the three letters that were most important was placed in his uncle’s trembling hand.

“But how was it ­what was it that so utterly crushed her?” asked Billy, when the colonel had once more extended his hand.

“The evidences of her own forgery, her own guilt,” said Armstrong gravely.  “One was the order she wrote in excellent imitation of her husband’s hand and signature, authorizing the changing of guard arrangements on the wharf the evening Stewart sailed.  The other was a note in pencil, also purporting to come from him, directing old Keeny ­you remember the General’s Irish orderly ­to search for a packet of letters that had come by mail, and must be in the general’s tent, either about his desk or overcoat, and to bring them at once to room number so and so at the Palace.  Of course neither the General nor Garrison was there when he arrived with them; but she was, and with all her fascinations.  She got the Irishman half drunk and told him a piteous story and made him swear he’d never tell the General or anybody.  If questioned he could plead he had gone out, and ­“got a little full with the boys.”  She gave him money ­a big bit, too; and he got more than full.  “The very vehemence of his denials made me suspect him,” said Armstrong; “but he was firm when examined.”  The General never required him to remain at the tent at night.  He could go to town any evening he wished; and to cover his appearing at the Palace where the General long had a room, and where he was well known, he could say he was only in to have a word with one of the housemaids, and to give Mrs. Garrison a handkerchief one of the ladies must have dropped.  But one thing she failed in ­getting the letter back.  Keeny had left it at camp in the pocket of his old blouse, and when he sobered up and all the questions were asked he hung onto it in case the truth came out, in order that he might save himself from punishment.  But it broke him ­he got to drinking oftener, and the General had to send him to his regiment; and then when we heard of Canker’s charge against you I saw the way to wring the truth out of him.  He worshiped your father, as did every Irish dragoon that ever rode under him, and I told him you were to be brought to trial for the crime.  Then he broke down and gave the truth ­and her penciled order ­to me.”

In the silence that followed the soldier of forty and the lad of only twenty-one sat looking gravely into each other’s face.  It was Armstrong who spoke again: 

“Gray, it was manly in you to tell me your story and your trouble.  I could help you here; but ­who can help you when you have to tell it ­next time?”

“Next time? ­father, do you mean?” queried Gray, a puzzled look in his blue eyes.  “I hadn’t thought, do you know, to worry dear old dad ­unless he asked.”

Armstrong’s grave face grew dark:  “You ought to know what I mean, Gray.  This story may come up when least you think for, and ­would you have it told Miss Lawrence before she hears it from you?”

“Miss Lawrence,” answered Billy, flushing, “isn’t in the least interested.”

“Do you mean that you are not ­that you were not engaged to her?” The colonel had been gazing out over the swirling river; but now, with curious contraction of brows, with a strong light in his eyes, he had turned full on the young officer.

“Engaged to her!  Do you suppose I could have been ­been such an ass if she would have had me?  No!  She ­she had too much sense.”

It was full a minute before Armstrong spoke again.  For a few seconds he sat motionless, gazing steadily into Gray’s handsome, blushing face; then he turned once more and looked out over the Pasig and the scarred level of the rice fields beyond.  And the long slant of the sunshine on distant towers and neighboring roofs and copse and wall, and the unlovely landscape seemed all tinged with purple haze and tipped with gold.  The blare of a bugle summoning the men to supper seemed softened by distance, or some new, strange intonation, and gave to the ugliest of all our service calls the effect of soft, sweet melody; and there was sympathy and genuine feeling in the deep voice as he once again held out his hand to Billy.

“Forgive me, lad, for I judged you more harshly than you deserved.”

One lovely, summer-like evening, some five weeks later, in long, heaving surges the deep blue waves of the Pacific came lazily rolling toward the palm-bordered beach at Waikiki, bursting into snowy foam on the pebbly strand, and, softly hissing, swept like fleecy mantle up the slope of wet, hard-beaten sand, then broke, lapping and whirling, about the stone supports of the broad lanai of one of the many luxurious homes that dot the curving line of the bay to the east of Honolulu.  Dimly outlined in the fairy moonlight, the shadowy mountains of the Waianai Range lay low upon the western horizon.  Eastward the bare, bold volcanic upheaval of Diamond Head gleamed in bold relief, reflecting the silver rays.  Here and there through the foliage shone the soft-colored fires of Chinese lanterns, and farther away, along the concave shore, distant electric lights twinkled like answering signals to the stars in the vault of blue, and the “riding lights” of the few transports or warships, swinging at anchor on the tide.

From a little grove of palms close to the low sea wall came the soft tinkle of guitar, and now and then a burst of joyous song, while under the spreading roof of the broad portico or lanai, the murmur of voices, the occasional ripple of musical laughter, the floating haze of cigarette smoke, told where a party of worshipers were gathered, rejoicing in the loveliness of nature and the night.

It was a reunited party, too, and in the welcome of their winsome hostess, in the soft, soothing influence of that summer clime, and through the healing tonic of the long sea voyage, faces that had been saddened by deep anxiety but a few weeks gone, smiled gladness into one another now.  A tall, gray-haired man reclined in an easy lounging chair, his eyes intent on the clear-cut face of a young soldier in trim white uniform who, with much animation, was telling of an event in the recent campaign.  By his side, her humid eyes following his every gesture, sat a tall, dark, stylish girl, whose hand from time to time crept forth to caress his ­an evident case of sister worship.  Close at hand another young fellow, in spotless white, his curly head bent far forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingertips joining, was studying silently the effect of his comrade’s story on another ­a fair girl whose sweet face, serene and composed, was fully illumined by the silvery light of the unclouded moon.  “Coming by transport, via Honolulu” ­“Gov.’s” cabled message had brought father and sister to meet him at these famed “Cross-roads of the Pacific,” and whither they journeyed Amy Lawrence, too, must go, said they; and, glad of opportunity to see the land of perennial bloom and sunshine, and wearied with long, long months of labor in the service of the Red Cross, the girl had willingly accepted their invitation.  Coaled and provisioned the transport had pushed on for the seven-day run for San Francisco; but the recovering of his long-lost son and the soft, reposeful atmosphere of the lovely, yet isolated island group, had so benefited Mr. Prime that in family council it had been decided wise for them to spend a week or ten days longer at the Royal Hawaiian; and the boys had found no difficulty in “holding over” for the Sedgwick that followed swift upon the heels of their own ship.  Five joyous days had they together, and this, the fifth, had been spent in sightseeing beyond the lofty Pali of the northward side.  The “O. & O.” liner was coming in from Yokohama even as they drove away; and as they sat at dinner on the open lanai, long hours later, it had been mentioned by their host that the Sedgwick, too, had reached the harbor during the afternoon, and that army people were passengers on both liner and transport.  Billy Gray, for one, began to wish that dinner were over.  He was eager to get the latest news from the Philippines, and the Sedgwick left Manila full a week behind their slower craft.

“Did you hear who came with her?” he somewhat eagerly asked, “or on the Doric?” he continued, with less enthusiasm.

“I did not,” was the answer ­“that is, on the Sedgwick;” and the gentleman baited lamely and glanced furtively and appealingly at his wife.  There was that embarrassing, interrogative silence that makes one feel the futility of concealment.  It was Miss Lawrence who quickly came to his relief and dispelled the strain on the situation.

“I should fancy very few army people would choose that roundabout way from Manila when they can come direct by transport, and have the ship to themselves.”

“Well ­er ­yes; certainly, certainly,” answered the helpless master of the house, dodging now the warning and reproach in the eyes of his wiser mate at the other end of the table.  The crack of a coachman’s whip and the swift beat of trotting hoofs on the graveled road in front could be heard as he faltered on.  The gleam of cab lights came floating through the northward shrubbery.  “Except, of course, when they happen to be ­er ­already, well, you know, at Hongkong or Nagasaki,” he lamely concluded.

There was an instant hurried glance exchanged between Gray and Prime.  Then up spoke in silvery tone their hostess: 

“Other officers, you know, are ordered home.  We have just heard to-day that Colonel Frost comes very soon.  His health seems quite shattered.  I believe ­you knew ­of them ­slightly that is to say, Miss Prime, did you not?” But even with her words she cast an anxious, furtive glance along the dim reach of the lanai, for the pit-a-pat of footfalls, the swish of feminine draperies was distinctly heard.  Two dainty, white-robed forms came floating into view, and, with changing color, their hostess suddenly arose and stepped forward to meet them.  Just one second of silence intervened, then, all grace and gladness, smiles and cordiality, both her little hands outstretched, Mrs. Frank Garrison came dancing into their midst, her sister more timidly following.

“Dear Mrs. Marsden, how perfectly (kiss, kiss) delicious!  Yes, this is the baby sister I’ve raved to you about.  We go right on with the Doric; but I had to bring her out with me that you might have just one glance at her.  Why!  Mr. Prime!  Why, what could be more charming than to find you here?  And ‘Gov.’ too ­you wicked boy!  What won’t I do to you for never telling me you were in Manila?  And Mildred!” (kiss ­kiss, despite a palpable dodge and heightened color on part of the half-dazed recipient).  “And you, too, Miss Lawrence?” (Both hands, but no kiss ­one hand calmly accepted).  “Ah, then I know how happy you are, Mr. Willie Gray!” (beaming arch smiles upon that flushed and flustered young officer.  Then, turning again to twine a jeweled arm about the slim waist of their hostess, to whom she clung as though defying any effort to dislodge, yet pleading for protection):  “Who on earth could have foretold that we of all people should have met out here ­of all places?  How long did you say you had been here?  A week?  And of course, dear Mrs. Marsden has done everything to make it lovely for you. I should have died without her.”  And so the swift play of words went on, the rapid fire of her fluent tongue covering the movement of her allies and drowning all possibility of reply.  It was an odd and trying moment.  Mrs. Marsden, well knowing, as who in Honolulu did not, of Mrs. Frank’s devotion to the young lieutenant, barely six months agone, was striving to welcome the shrinking little scare-faced thing that blindly and helplessly had drifted in in the elder sister’s wake.  The introductions that followed, after the American fashion, were as perfunctory as well-bred women can permit.  The greetings were almost solemn, smileless, and, on part of Nita, fluttering to the verge of a faint; and nothing but Witchie’s plucky and persistent support, and the light flow of airy chat and laughter, carried her through the ordeal.  The two young soldiers stood stiffly back, red-faced and black-browed; the father, pallid and cold, could hardly force himself to unbend, yet his lips mumbled the name “Mrs. Frost,” as he bowed at presentation; Miss Prime stood erect and trembling; Miss Lawrence, with brave eyes but heightened color.  To leave at once was impossible; to remain was more than embarrassment.  Most gallantly did they battle, Mrs. Marsden and Mrs. Frank, to lift the wet blanket from the group and relieve the strain.  Reward came to crown their efforts in strange, unlooked-for fashion.  Hoofs, wheels and flashing lights were again at the entrance gate, even as Mrs. Frank, sparkling with animation, distributing her gay good humor over the silent semicircle, suddenly exclaimed:  “Oh, if I’d only known you were here, I could have provided the one thing to make our reunion complete!  If we were not going on at daybreak I should do it yet.”  Then hoofs and wheels and lights had come to a stop at the front of the house, and in measured, martial tread a man’s footsteps were heard upon the lanai.  Then, all of a sudden, with a cry of joy, Witchie burst in again:  “Should do it? ­I shall do it!  Said I not I was the fairy queen?  Behold me summon my subjects from the ends of the obedient earth!” And, waving her parasol as she would a wand, gayly pirouetting as she had that night in the tent at old Camp Merritt, she danced forward:  “Sound ye the trumpets, slaves!  Hail to the chief!  See the conquering hero comes!  Enter Brevet Brigadier-General Stanley Armstrong! ­though his arm is anything but strong.”

Bowing gravely to the sprite in front of him, vaguely to the group in the shaded light at the edge of the lanai, and joyously to the little hostess, as almost hysterically she sprang forward and clasped his hands, the colonel of the Primeval Dudes stood revealed before them.

“Colonel Armstrong!  How ­when did you get here?  What does this mean?  Is your arm quite well again?  Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?” were the questions rained upon him by Mrs. Marsden, immediately followed by the somewhat illogical statement that she was actually breathless with surprise.

“Shall I answer in their order?” said he, smiling down at her flushed and joyous face.  “By the Sedgwick.  This afternoon.  That I wished to see you.  Doing quite well.  Because I didn’t know myself until two days before we sailed.”  Then, as he stood peering beyond her, she would have turned him to her other guests had not Mrs. Garrison made instant and impulsive rush upon him.

“As fairy queen or fairy godmother I claim first speech,” she gayly cried.  “What tidings of my liege lord, and where is hers, my fairy sister’s?” she demanded, waving in front of him her filmy parasol and pirouetting with almost girlish grace.

“Captain Garrison was looking fairly well the day I sailed,” he answered briefly; “and Colonel Frost left for Hongkong only a few hours before in hopes, as we understood, of finding Mrs. Frost at Yokohama.  Permit me,” he added, with grave courtesy.  “I have but little time as I transfer to the Doric to-night.”

A shade spread over the radiant face one instant, but was as quickly swept away.  “And I have not met your guests,” he finished, turning to Mrs. Marsden, as he spoke, and quietly passing Mrs. Garrison in so doing.  The next moment he was shaking hands with the entire party, coming last of all to Amy Lawrence.

“They told me of your being here,” he said, looking straight into her clear, beautiful eyes; “and I thought I might find you at Mrs. Marsden’s.  She was our best friend when we were in Honolulu.  They told me, too, that you desired to go by the Doric, but feared she would be crowded,” he continued, turning to Mr. Prime.  “There is one vacant stateroom now; its occupants have decided to stay over and visit the islands.  There will be, I think, another.”  And drawing a letter from an inner pocket he calmly turned to Nita, now shrinking almost fearfully behind her sister.  “The colonel gave this to me to hand to you, Mrs. Frost, on the chance of your being here.  He will arrive by next week’s steamer, and, pardon me, it is something I think you should see at once as a change in your plans may be necessary.”

It was vain for Margaret to interpose.  The letter was safely lodged in her sister’s hands, and with so significant a message that it had to be opened and read without delay.  Gayly excusing herself, and with a low reverence and comprehensive smile to the assembled party, she ushered her sister into the long parlor, and the curtain fell behind them.  There followed a few minutes of brisk conference upon the lanai, the Marsdens pleading against, the father and daughter for, immediate return to the hotel, there to claim the vacated rooms aboard the steamer.  In the eager discussion, pro and con, both young soldiers joined, both saying “go,” and promising to follow by the Sedgwick.  In this family council, despite the vivid interest Armstrong felt in the result, neither Amy Lawrence nor himself took any part.  Side by side at the snowy railing over the breaking sea they stood almost silent listeners.  Suddenly there came from the front again the sound of hoofs and wheels, loud and distinct at the start, then rapidly dying away with the increasing distance.  Miss Lawrence turned and looked inquiringly into the eyes she well knew were fixed upon her.  Mrs. Marsden hesitated one moment, then stepped across the lanai, peered into the parlor and entered.  It was a minute before she returned, and in that minute the decisive vote was cast, the carriage ordered.

“Oh, I ought to have known how it would be if I left you a moment!” she cried despairingly, on her reappearance, a little folded paper in her hand.  “But at least you must stay half an hour.  We can telephone direct to the dock and secure the staterooms, if go you must on the Doric.  Yes,” she continued, lowering her voice, “they are not going farther until Colonel Frost comes.  Mrs. Garrison explains that her sister was really too ill and too weak to come out here, but she thought the drive might do her good.  She thought best to slip quietly away with her, and bids me say good-night to you all.”

So, when next day the Doric sailed, four new names appeared upon the passenger list, and the last men down the stage already “trembling on the rise,” were two young fellows in white uniform, who turned as they sprang to the dock and waved their jaunty caps.  “Join you in ten days at ’Frisco!” shouted the shorter of the two, gazing upward and backward at the quartette on the promenade deck.  “Oh! beg a thousand pardons,” he added hastily, as he bumped against some slender object, and, wheeling about to pick up a flimsy white fan, he found himself face to face with Witchie Garrison, kerchief waving, beaming, smiling, throwing kisses innumerable to the party he had so lately left.  The hot blood rushed to his forehead, an angry light to his eyes, as she nodded blithely, forbearingly, forgivingly at him.  “Dear boy,” she cried, in her clear, penetrating treble, “how could you be expected to see any one after leaving ­her?” But Gov.’s arm was linked in his at the very instant and led him glowering away, leaving her close to the edge of the crowded dock, smiling sweetness, blessing and bliss upon a silent and unresponsive group, and waving kerchief and kisses to them until, far from shore, the Doric headed out to sea.

They were nearing home again.  Day and night for nearly a week the good ship had borne them steadily onward over a sea of deepest blue, calm and unruffled as the light that shone in Amy’s eyes.  Hours of each twenty-four Armstrong had been the constant companion, at first of the trio, then of the two ­for Mr. Prime had found a kindred spirit in a veteran merchant homeward bound from China ­then of one alone; for Miss Prime had found another interest, and favor in the eyes of a young tourist paying his first visit to our shores, and so it happened that before the voyage, all too brief, was half over, Amy Lawrence and Armstrong walked the spacious deck for hours alone or sat in sheltered nooks, gazing out upon the sea.  The soft, summer breezes of the first few days had given place to keener, chillier air.  The fog ahead told of the close proximity of the Farallones.  Heavier wraps had replaced the soft fabrics of the Hawaiian saunterings.  But warmth and gladness, coupled with a strange new shyness in his presence, were glowing in her fresh young heart.  One day she had said to him:  “You have not told me how you came to leave there ­just now,” and it was a moment before he answered.

“That was the surgeons’ doing.  They sent me back from the front because the wound did not properly heal, and then ordered a sea voyage until it did; but I turn back at once from San Francisco.”

She was silent a few seconds.  This was unlooked for and unwelcome news.  “I thought,” she said, “at least Gov. heard Dr. Frank say it would be four months before you could use that arm.”  She plucked at the fringe of the heavy shawl he had wrapped about her as she reclined in the low steamer chair; but the white lids veiled her eyes.

“Possibly,” answered Armstrong; “but you see I do not have to use it much at any time.  I’m all right otherwise, and there will soon be need of me.”

“More campaigning?” she anxiously inquired, her eyes one moment uplifting.

“Probably.  Those fellows have no idea of quitting.”

Another interval of silence.  The long, lazy, rolling swell of the Pacific had changed during the day to an abrupt and tumultuous upheaval that tossed the Doric like a cork and made locomotion a problem.  The rising wind and sea sent the spray whirling from her bows, and Mildred’s young man, casting about for a dry corner, had deposited his fair charge on a bench along the forward deck house and was scouting up and down for steamer chairs.  Armstrong had drawn his close to that in which Miss Lawrence reclined, her knitted steamer cap pulled well forward over her brow.  His feet were braced against a stanchion.  His eyes were intent upon her sweet face.  He had no thought for other men, even those in similar plight.  His gaze, though unhampered by the high peak of his forage cap, comprehended nothing beyond the rounded outline of that soft cheek.  Her eyes, well-nigh hidden by her shrouding “Tam,” saw the searching son of Albion and told her his need.  The best of women will find excuse for interruption at such moments when sure of the devotion of the man who sits with a fateful question quivering on his lips; and, even when she longs to hear those very words, will find means to defer them as a kitten dallies with a captured mouse or a child saves to the very last the sweetest morsel of her birthday cake.  Not ten minutes before, when the Honorable Bertie Shafto had started impulsively toward the vacant chair by Armstrong’s side, a firm hand detained him, and Miss Prime had hastily interposed.  “Not on any account!” said she, imperiously.  “Can’t you see?” And Mr. Shafto, adjusting his monocle, had gazed long and fixedly, and then, transferring his gaze to her, had said: 

“Eh ­eh ­yes.  It’s not ours, I suppose you mean.”

But now Amy Lawrence was beckoning, and he made a rush for the rail, then worked his way aft, hand over hand.  Every movable on deck was taking a sudden slant to starboard, and the sea went hissing by almost on level with the deck as next she spoke.  “Surely a soldier needs both arms in battle, and you ­Oh, certainly, Mr. Shafto, take that chair,” she added.  Armstrong glanced up suddenly.

“Oh! that you, Shafto?  Yes; take it by all means.”

Anything, thought he, rather than that they should come here.  The young Briton stepped easily past between them and the rail ­behind there was no room ­and, swinging the long, awkwardly modeled fabric to his broad shoulder, started back just as a huge wave heaved suddenly under the counter, heeled the steamer far over to port, threw him off his balance, and, his foot catching at the bottom of her chair, hurled him, load and all, straight at Amy’s reclining form.  One instant, and even her uplifted hands could not have saved her face; but in that instant Armstrong had darted in, caught the stumbling Briton on one arm, and the full force of the shooting chair crashing upon the other, already pierced by Filipino lead.

When, a moment later she emerged, safe and unscratched from the confused heap of men and furniture, it was to cut off instantly the stutter and stammer of poor Shafto’s apologies, to bid him go instantly for the ship’s doctor, and, with face the color of death, to turn quickly to Armstrong.  The blow had burst open the half-healed wound, and the blood was streaming to the deck.

Both liner and transport turned back without Stanley Armstrong, Doric and Sedgwick sailed unheeded, for the highest surgical authority of the Department of California had remanded him to quarters at the Palace and forbidden his return to duty with an unhealed wound.  He was sitting up again, somewhat pallid and not too strong, but with every promise, said the “medico,” of complete recovery within two months.  But not a month would Armstrong wait.  The Puebla was to start within the week, and he had made up his mind.  “Go,” said he, “I must.”

They had been sitting about him, the night this opinion was announced, in the parlor of the suite of rooms the Primes had taken.  Billy Gray had gone with his father to the club, Shafto had been hanging about in the agonies of an Englishman’s first love, Gov. disappeared a moment and came back with tickets for the Columbia, bidding Mildred get her hat and gloves at once, and whispering Shafto that he had a seat for him.  As the little mantel clock struck eight Amy Lawrence, lifting up her eyes from the book she was trying hard to believe she meant to read, saw that Armstrong was rising from his easy-chair, and, springing to his side, laying her white hand on his arm, she faltered, “Oh, please!  You know the stipulation was that you were not to stir.”

But then her heart began to flutter uncontrollably.  The blood went surging to her brows, for all of a sudden, as through impulse irresistible, her hand was seized in his ­in both of his, in fact ­and the deep voice that had pleaded at her behest for the cause of Billy Gray was now, in impetuous flow of words that fell upon her ears like some strain of thrilling music, pleading at last his own.  Ever since that day in the radiant sunshine of the Park she had learned to look up to him as a tower of strength, a man of mark among his fellows, a man to be honored and obeyed.  Ever since that night at the Palace, when she saw his glowing eyes fixed intently upon her, and knew that he was following her every move, she had begun to realize the depth of his interest in her.  Ever since that day when the China slipped from her moorings, with Witchie Garrison singling him out for lavish farewell favors, she had wondered why it so annoyed and stung her.  Ever since the day she read the list of killed and wounded in the first fierce battling with the “Insurrectos” she knew it was the sight of his name, not Billy Gray’s, that made her for the moment faint and dizzy, and taught her the need of greater self-control.  Ever since that moonlit night upon the Marsden’s lanai, when her heart leaped at the sudden sound of his voice, she had realized what his coming meant to her, and ever since that breezy day upon the broad Pacific, with the sailor’s song of “Land ho!” ringing from the bows, and he, her wounded soldier, had sprung to shield her from the crash of Shafto’s hapless stumble, and the deck was stained with the precious blood from that soldier’s reopened wound, shed for her ­for her who so revered him ­she had longed to hear him say the words that alone could unlock the gates of maidenly reserve and let her tell him ­tell him with glad and grateful heart that the love he bore her was answered by her own.  Hovering over him only one minute, her lips half parted, her eyes still veiled, her heart throbbing loud and fast, with sudden movement she threw herself upon her knees at the side of the low chair, and her burning face, ever so lightly, was buried in the dark-blue sleeve above that blessed wound.