CHAPTER I.

A CADET’S SISTER.

She was standing at the very end of the forward deck, and, with flushing cheeks and sparkling eyes, gazing eagerly upon the scene before her.  Swiftly, smoothly rounding the rugged promontory on the right, the steamer was just turning into the highland “reach” at Fort Montgomery and heading straight away for the landings on the sunset shore.  It was only mid-May, but the winter had been mild, the spring early, and now the heights on either side were clothed in raiment of the freshest, coolest green; the vines were climbing in luxuriant leaf all over the face of the rocky scarp that hemmed the swirling tide of the Hudson; the radiance of the evening sunshine bathed all the eastern shores in mellow light and left the dark slopes and deep gorges of the opposite range all the deeper and darker by contrast.  A lively breeze had driven most of the passengers within doors as they sped through the broad waters of the Tappan Zee, but, once within the sheltering traverses of Dunderberg and the heights beyond, many of their number reappeared upon the promenade deck, and first among them was the bonnie little maid now clinging to the guard-rail at the very prow, and, heedless of fluttering skirt or fly-away curl, watching with all her soul in her bright blue eyes for the first glimpse of the haven where she would be.  No eyes on earth look so eagerly for the grim, gray façade of the riding-hall or the domes and turrets of the library building as those of a girl who has spent the previous summer at West Point.

Utterly absorbed in her watch, she gave no heed to other passengers who presently took their station close at hand.  One was a tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired young lady in simple and substantial travelling-dress.  With her were two men in tweeds and Derby hats, and to these companions she constantly turned with questions as to prominent objects in the rich and varied landscape.  It was evident that she was seeing for the first time sights that had been described to her time and again, for she was familiar with every name.  One of the party was a man of over fifty years, ­bronzed of face and gray of hair, but with erect carriage and piercing black eyes that spoke of vigor, energy, and probably of a life in the open air.  It needed not the tri-colored button of the Loyal Legion in the lapel of his coat to tell that he was a soldier.  Any one who chose to look ­and there were not a few ­could speedily have seen, too, that these were father and daughter.

The other man was still taller than the dark, wiry, slim-built soldier, but in years he was not more than twenty-eight or nine.  His eyes, brows, hair, and the heavy moustache that drooped over his mouth were all of a dark, soft brown.  His complexion was clear and ruddy; his frame powerful and athletic.  Most of the time he stood a silent but attentive listener to the eager talk between the young lady and her father, but his kindly eyes rarely left her face; he was ready to respond when she turned to question him, and when he spoke it was with the unmistakable intonation of the South.

The deep, mellow tones of the bell were booming out their landing signal as the steamer shot into the shadow of a high, rocky cliff.  Far aloft on the overhanging piazzas of a big hotel, fluttering handkerchiefs greeted the passengers on the decks below.  Many eyes were turned thither in recognition of the salute, but not those of the young girl at the bow.  One might, indeed, have declared her resentful of this intermediate stop.  The instant the gray walls of the riding-school had come into view she had signalled, eagerly, with a wave of her hand, to a gentleman and lady seated in quiet conversation under the shelter of the deck.  Presently the former, a burly, broad-shouldered man of forty or thereabouts, came sauntering forward and stood close behind her.

“Well, Nan!  Most there, I see.  Think you can hold on five minutes longer, or shall I toss you over and let you swim for it?”

For answer Miss Nan clasps a wooden pillar in her gray-gloved hands, and tilts excitedly on the toes of her tiny boots, never once relaxing her gaze on the dock a mile or more away up-stream.

“Just think of being so near Willy ­and all of them ­and not seeing one to speak to until after parade,” she finally says.

“Simply inhuman!” answers her companion with commendable gravity, but with humorous twinkle about his eyes.  “Is it worth all the long journey, and all the excitement in which your mother tells me you’ve been plunged for the past month?”

“Worth it, Uncle Jack?” and the blue eyes flash upon him indignantly.  “Worth it?  You wouldn’t ask if you knew it all, as I do.”

“Possibly not,” says Uncle Jack, whimsically.  “I haven’t the advantage of being a girl with a brother and a baker’s dozen of beaux in bell buttons and gray.  I’m only an old fossil of a ‘cit,’ with a scamp of a nephew and that limited conception of the delights of West Point which one can derive from running up there every time that versatile youngster gets into a new scrape.  You’ll admit my opportunities have been frequent.”

“It isn’t Willy’s fault, and you know it, Uncle Jack, though we all know how good you’ve been; but he’s had more bad luck and ­and ­injustice than any cadet in the corps.  Lots of his classmates told me so.”

“Yes,” says Uncle Jack, musingly.  “That is what your blessed mother, yonder, wrote me when I went up last winter, the time Billy submitted that explanation to the commandant with its pleasing reference to the fox that had lost its tail ­you doubtless recall the incident ­and came within an ace of dismissal in consequence.”

“I don’t care!” interrupts Miss Nan, with flashing eyes.  “Will had provocation enough to say much worse things; Jimmy Frazer wrote me so, and said the whole class was sticking up for him.”

“I do not remember having had the honor of meeting Jimmy Frazer,” remarks Uncle Jack, with an aggravating drawl that is peculiar to him.  “Possibly he was one of the young gentlemen who didn’t call, owing to some temporary impediment in the way of light prison ­”

“Yes; and all because he took Will’s part, as I believe,” is the impetuous reply.  “Oh!  I’ll be so thankful when they’re out of it all.”

“So will they, no doubt.  ’Sticking up’ ­wasn’t that Mr. Frazer’s expression? ­for Bill seems to have been an expensive luxury all round.  Wonder if sticking up is something they continue when they get to their regiments?  Billy has two or three weeks yet in which to ruin his chances of ever reaching one, and he has exhibited astonishing aptitude for tripping himself up thus far.”

“Uncle Jack!  How can you speak so of Willy, when he is so devoted to you?  When he gets to his regiment there won’t be any Lieutenant Lee to nag and worry him night and day. He’s the cause of all the trouble.”

“That so?” drawls Uncle Jack.  “I didn’t happen to meet Mr. Lee, either, ­he was away on leave; but as Bill and your mother had some such views, I looked into things a bit.  It appears to be a matter of record that my enterprising nephew had more demerit before the advent of Mr. Lee than since.  As for ‘extras’ and confinements, his stock was always big enough to bear the market down to bottom prices.”

The boat is once more under way, and a lull in the chat close at hand induces Uncle Jack to look about him.  The younger of the two men lately standing with the dark-eyed girl has quietly withdrawn, and is now shouldering his way to a point out of ear-shot.  There he calmly turns and waits; his glance again resting upon her whose side he has so suddenly quitted.  She has followed him with her eyes until he stops; then with heightened color resumes a low-toned chat with her father.  Uncle Jack is a keen observer, and his next words are inaudible except to his niece.

“Nan, my child, I apprehend that remarks upon the characteristics of the officers at the Point had best be confined to the bosom of the family.  We may be in their very midst.”

She turns, flushing, and for the first time her blue eyes meet the dark ones of the older girl.  Her cheeks redden still more, and she whirls about again.

“I can’t help it, Uncle Jack,” she murmurs.  “I’d just like to tell them all what I think of Will’s troubles.”

“Oh!  Candor is to be admired of all things,” says Uncle Jack, airily.  “Still it is just as well to observe the old adage, ’Be sure you’re right,’ etc.  Now I own to being rather fond of Bill, despite all the worry he has given your mother, and all the bother he has been to me ­”

“All the worry that others have given him, you ought to say, Uncle Jack.”

“W-e-ll, har-d-ly.  It didn’t seem to me that the corps, as a rule, thought Billy the victim of persecution.”

“They all tell me so, at least,” is the indignant outburst.

“Do they, Nan?  Well, of course, that settles it.  Still, there were a few who reluctantly admitted having other views when I pressed them closely.”

“Then they were no friends of Willy’s, or mine either!”

“Now, do you know, I thought just the other way?  I thought one of them, especially, a very stanch friend of Billy’s and yours, too, Nan, but Billy seems to consider advisers in the light of adversaries.”

A moment’s pause.  Then, with cheeks still red, and plucking at the rope netting with nervous fingers, Miss Nan essays a tentative.  Her eyes are downcast as she asks, ­

“I suppose you mean Mr. Stanley?”

“The very man, Nanette; very much of a man to my thinking.”

The bronzed soldier standing near cannot but have heard the name and the words.  His face takes on a glow and the black eyes kindle.

“Mr. Stanley would not say to me that Willy is to blame,” pouts the maiden, and her little foot is beating impatiently tattoo on the deck.

“Neither would I ­just now ­if I were Mr. Stanley; but all the same, he decidedly opposed the view that Mr. Lee was ‘down on Billy,’ as your mother seems to think.”

“That’s because Mr. Lee is tactical officer commanding the company, and Mr. Stanley is cadet captain.  Oh!  I will take him to task if he has been ­been ­”

But she does not finish.  She has turned quickly in speaking, her hand clutching a little knot of bell buttons hanging by a chain at the front of her dress.  She has turned just in time to catch a warning glance in Uncle Jack’s twinkling eyes, and to see a grim smile lurking under the gray moustache of the gentleman with the Loyal Legion button who is leading away the tall young lady with the dark hair.  In another moment they have rejoined the third member of their party, ­he who first withdrew, ­and it is evident that something has happened which gives them all much amusement.  They are chatting eagerly together, laughing not a little, although the laughter, like their words, is entirely inaudible to Miss Nan.  But she feels a twinge of indignation when the tall girl turns and looks directly at her.  There is nothing unkindly in the glance.  There even is merriment in the dark, handsome eyes and lurking among the dimples around that beautiful mouth.  Why did those eyes ­so heavily fringed, so thickly shaded ­seem to her familiar as old friends?  Nan could have vowed she had somewhere met that girl before, and now that girl was laughing at her.  Not rudely, not aggressively, to be sure, ­she had turned away again the instant she saw that the little maiden’s eyes were upon her, ­but all the same, said Nan to herself, she was laughing.  They were all laughing, and it must have been because of her outspoken defence of Brother Will and equally outspoken defiance of his persecutors.  What made it worse was that Uncle Jack was laughing too.

“Do you know who they are?” she demands, indignantly.

“Not I, Nan,” responds Uncle Jack.  “Never saw them before in my life, but I warrant we see them again, and at the Point, too.  Come, child.  There’s our bell, and we must start for the gangway.  Your mother is hailing us now.  Never mind this time, little woman,” he continues, kindly, as he notes the cloud on her brow.  “I don’t think any harm has been done, but it is just as well not to be impetuous in public speech.  Ah!  I thought so.  They are to get off here with us.”

Three minutes more and a little stream of passengers flows out upon the broad government dock, and, as luck would have it, Uncle Jack and his charges are just behind the trio in which, by this time, Miss Nan is deeply, if not painfully, interested.  A soldier in the undress uniform of a corporal of artillery hastens forward and, saluting, stretches forth his hand to take the satchel carried by the tall man with the brown moustache.

“The lieutenant’s carriage is at the gate,” he says, whereat Uncle Jack, who is conducting her mother just in front, looks back over his shoulder and nods compassionately at Nan.

“Has any despatch been sent down to meet Colonel Stanley?” she hears the tall man inquire, and this time Uncle Jack’s backward glance is a combination of mischief and concern.

“Nothing, sir, and the adjutant’s orderly is here now.  This is all he brought down,” and the corporal hands to the inquirer a note, the superscription of which the young officer quickly scans; then turns and, while his soft brown eyes light with kindly interest and he bares his shapely head, accosts the lady on Uncle Jack’s arm, ­

“Pardon me, madam.  This note must be for you.  Mrs. McKay, is it not?”

And as her mother smiles her thanks and the others turn away, Nan’s eager eyes catch sight of Will’s well-known writing.  Mrs. McKay rapidly reads it as Uncle Jack is bestowing bags and bundles in the omnibus and feeing the acceptive porter, who now rushes back to the boat in the nick of time.

     “Awful sorry I can’t get up to the hotel to see you,” says the
     note, dolorously, but by no means unexpectedly.  “I’m in confinement
     and can’t get a permit.  Come to the officer-in-charge’s office
     right after supper, and he’ll let me see you there awhile. 
     Stanley’s officer of the day, and he’ll be there to show the way. 
     In haste,
                                                        WILL.”

“Now isn’t that poor Willy’s luck every time!” exclaims Miss Nan, her blue eyes threatening to fill with tears.  “I do think they might let him off the day we get here.”

“Unquestionably,” answers Uncle Jack, with great gravity, as he assists the ladies into the yellow omnibus.  “You duly notified the superintendent of your impending arrival, I suppose?”

Mrs. McKay smiles quietly.  Hers is a sweet and gentle face, lined with many a trace of care and anxiety.  Her brother’s whimsical ways are old acquaintances, and she knows how to treat them; but Nan is young, impulsive, and easily teased.  She flares up instantly.

“Of course we didn’t, Uncle Jack; how utterly absurd it would sound!  But Willy knew we were coming, and he must have told him when he asked for his permit, and it does seem too hard that he was refused.”

“Heartless in the last degree,” says Uncle Jack, sympathetically, but with the same suggestive drawl.  “Yonder go the father and sister of the young gentleman whom you announced your intention to castigate because he didn’t agree that Billy was being abused, Nan.  You will have a chance this very evening, won’t you?  He’s officer of the day, according to Billy’s note, and can’t escape.  You’ll have wound up the whole family by tattoo.  Quite a good day’s work.  Billy’s opposers will do well to take warning and keep out of the way hereafter,” he continues, teasingly.  “Oh ­ah ­corporal!” he calls, “who was the young officer who just drove off in the carriage with the lady and gentleman?”

“That was Lieutenant Lee, sir.”

Uncle Jack turns and contemplates his niece with an expression of the liveliest admiration. “’Pon my word, Miss Nan, you are a most comprehensive young person.  You’ve indeed let no guilty man escape.”

CHAPTER II.

A CADET SCAPEGRACE.

The evening that opened so clear and sunshiny has clouded rapidly over.  Even as the four gray companies come “trotting” in from parade, and, with the ease of long habit, quickly forming line in the barrack area, some heavy rain-drops begin to fall; the drum-major has hurried his band away; the crowd of spectators, unusually large for so early in the season, scatters for shelter; umbrellas pop up here and there under the beautiful trees along the western roadway; the adjutant rushes through “delinquency list” in a style distinguishable only to his stolid, silent audience standing immovably before him, ­a long perspective of gray uniforms and glistening white belts.  The fateful book is closed with a snap, and the echoing walls ring to the quick commands of the first sergeants, at which the bayonets are struck from the rifle-barrels, and the long line bursts into a living torrent sweeping into the hall-ways to escape the coming shower.

When the battalion reappears, a few moments later, every man is in his overcoat, and here and there little knots of upper classmen gather, and there is eager and excited talk.

A soldierly, dark-eyed young fellow, with the red sash of the officer of the day over his shoulder, comes briskly out of the hall of the fourth division.  The chevrons of a cadet captain are glistening on his arm, and he alone has not donned the gray overcoat, although he has discarded the plumed shako in deference to the coming storm; yet he hardly seems to notice the downpour of the rain; his face is grave and his lips set and compressed as he rapidly makes his way through the groups awaiting the signal to “fall in” for supper.

“Stanley!  O Stanley!” is the hail from a knot of classmates, and he halts and looks about as two or three of the party hasten after him.

“What does Billy say about it?” is the eager inquiry.

“Nothing ­new.”

“Well, that report as good as finds him on demerit, doesn’t it?”

“The next thing to it; though he has been as close to the brink before.”

“But ­great Scott!  He has two weeks yet to run; and Billy McKay can no more live two weeks without demerit than Patsy, here, without ‘spooning.’”

Mr. Stanley’s eyes look tired as he glances up from under the visor of his forage cap.  He is not as tall by half a head as the young soldiers by whom he is surrounded.

“We were talking of his chances at dinner-time,” he says, gravely.  “Billy never mentioned this break of his yesterday, and was surprised to hear the report read out to-night.  I believe he had forgotten the whole thing.”

“Who ‘skinned’ him? ­Lee?  He was there.”

“I don’t know; McKay says so, but there were several officers over there at the time.  It is a report he cannot get off, and it comes at a most unlucky moment.”

With this remark Mr. Stanley turns away and goes striding through the crowded area towards the guard-house.  Another moment and there is sudden drum-beat; the gray overcoats leap into ranks; the subject of the recent discussion ­a jaunty young fellow with laughing blue eyes ­comes tearing out of the fourth division just in time to avoid a “late,” and the clamor of tenscore voices gives place to silence broken only by the rapid calling of the rolls and the prompt “here” ­“here,” in response.

If ever there was a pet in the corps of cadets he lived in the person of Billy McKay.  Bright as one of his own buttons; jovial, generous, impulsive; he had only one enemy in the battalion, ­and that one, as he had been frequently told, was himself.  This, however, was a matter which he could not at all be induced to believe.  Of the Academic Board in general, of his instructors in large measure, but of the four or five ill-starred soldiers known as “tactical officers” in particular, Mr. McKay entertained very decided and most unflattering opinions.  He had won his cadetship through rigid competitive examination against all comers; he was a natural mathematician of whom a professor had said that he “could stand in the fives and wouldn’t stand in the forties;” years of his boyhood spent in France had made him master of the colloquial forms of the court language of Europe, yet a dozen classmates who had never seen a French verb before their admission stood above him at the end of the first term.  He had gone to the first section like a rocket and settled to the bottom of it like a stick.  No subject in the course was really hard to him, his natural aptitude enabling him to triumph over the toughest problems.  Yet he hated work, and would often face about with an empty black-board and take a zero and a report for neglect of studies that half an hour’s application would have rendered impossible.  Classmates who saw impending danger would frequently make stolen visits to his room towards the close of the term and profess to be baffled by the lesson for the morrow, and Billy would promptly knock the ashes out of the pipe he was smoking contrary to regulations and lay aside the guitar on which he had been softly strumming ­also contrary to regulations; would pick up the neglected calculus or mechanics; get interested in the work of explanation, and end by having learned the lesson in spite of himself.  This was too good a joke to be kept a secret, and by the time the last year came Billy had found it all out and refused to be longer hoodwinked.

There was never the faintest danger of his being found deficient in studies, but there was ever the glaring prospect of his being discharged “on demerit.”  Mr. McKay and the regulations of the United States Military Academy had been at loggerheads from the start.

And yet, frank, jolly, and generous as he was in all intercourse with his comrades, there was never a time when this young gentleman could be brought to see that in such matters he was the arbiter of his own destiny.  Like the Irishman whose first announcement on setting foot on American soil was that he was “agin the government,” Billy McKay believed that regulations were made only to oppress; that the men who drafted such a code were idiots, and that those whose duty it became to enforce it were simply spies and tyrants, resistance to whom was innate virtue.  He was forever ignoring or violating some written or unwritten law of the Academy; was frequently being caught in the act, and was invariably ready to attribute the resultant report to ill luck which pursued no one else, or to a deliberate persecution which followed him forever.  Every six months he had been on the verge of dismissal, and now, a fortnight from the final examination, with a margin of only six demerit to run on, Mr. Billy McKay had just been read out in the daily list of culprits or victims as “Shouting from window of barracks to cadets in area during study hours, ­three forty-five and four P.M.”

There was absolutely no excuse for this performance.  The regulations enjoined silence and order in barracks during “call to quarters.”  It had been raining a little, and he was in hopes there would be no battalion drill, in which event he would venture on throwing off his uniform and spreading himself out on his bed with a pipe and a novel, ­two things he dearly loved.  Ten minutes would have decided the question legitimately for him, but, being of impatient temperament, he could not wait, and, catching sight of the adjutant and the senior captain coming from the guard-house, Mr. McKay sung out in tones familiar to every man within ear-shot, ­

“Hi, Jim!  Is it battalion drill?”

The adjutant glanced quickly up, ­a warning glance as he could have seen, ­merely shook his head, and went rapidly on, while his comrade, the cadet first captain, clinched his fist at the window and growled between his set teeth, “Be quiet, you idiot!”

But poor Billy persisted.  Louder yet he called, ­

“Well ­say ­Jimmy!  Come up here after four o’clock.  I’ll be in confinement, and can’t come out.  Want to see you.”

And the windows over at the office of the commandant being wide open, and that official being seated there in consultation with three or four of his assistants, and as Mr. McKay’s voice was as well known to them as to the corps, there was no alternative.  The colonel himself “confounded” the young scamp for his recklessness, and directed a report to be entered against him.

And now, as Mr. Stanley is betaking himself to his post at the guard-house, his heart is heavy within him because of this new load on his comrade’s shoulders.

“How on earth could you have been so careless, Billy?” he had asked him as McKay, fuming and indignant, was throwing off his accoutrements in his room on the second floor.

“How’d I know anybody was over there?” was the boyish reply.  “It’s just a skin on suspicion anyhow.  Lee couldn’t have seen me, nor could anybody else.  I stood way back by the clothes-press.”

“There’s no suspicion about it, Billy.  There isn’t a man that walks the area that doesn’t know your voice as well as he does Jim Pennock’s.  Confound it!  You’ll get over the limit yet, man, and break your ­your mother’s heart.”

“Oh, come now, Stan!  You’ve been nagging me ever since last camp.  Why’n thunder can’t you see I’m doing my best?  Other men don’t row me as you do, or stand up for the ‘tacks.’  I tell you that fellow Lee never loses a chance of skinning me:  he takes chances, by gad, and I’ll make his eyes pop out of his head when he reads what I’ve got to say about it.”

“You’re too hot for reason now, McKay,” said Stanley, sadly.  “Step out or you’ll get a late for supper.  I’ll see you after awhile.  I gave that note to the orderly, by the way, and he said he’d take it down to the dock himself.”

“Mother and Nan will probably come to the guard-house right after supper.  Look out for them for me, will you, Stan, until old Snipes gets there and sends for me?”

And as Mr. Stanley shut the door instantly and went clattering down the iron stairs, Mr. McKay caught no sign on his face of the sudden flutter beneath that snugly-buttoned coat.

It was noticed by more than one of the little coterie at his own table that the officer of the day hurried through his supper and left the mess-hall long before the command for the first company to rise.  It was a matter well known to every member of the graduating class that, almost from the day of her arrival during the encampment of the previous summer, Phil Stanley had been a devoted admirer of Miss Nannie McKay.  It was not at all to be wondered at.

Without being what is called an ideal beauty, there was a fascination about this winsome little maid which few could resist.  She had all her brother’s impulsiveness, all his enthusiasm, and, it may be safely asserted, all his abiding faith in the sacred and unimpeachable character of cadet friendships.  If she possessed a little streak of romance that was not discernible in him, she managed to keep it well in the background; and though she had her favorites in the corps, she was so frank and cordial and joyous in her manner to all that it was impossible to say which one, if any, she regarded in the light of a lover.  Whatever comfort her gentle mother may have derived from this state of affairs, it was “hard lines on Stanley,” as his classmates put it, for there could be little doubt that the captain of the color company was a sorely-smitten man.

He was not what is commonly called a “popular man” in the corps.  The son of a cavalry officer, reared on the wide frontier and educated only imperfectly, he had not been able to enter the Academy until nearly twenty years of age, and nothing but indomitable will and diligence had carried him through the difficulties of the first half of the course.  It was not until the middle of the third year that the chevrons of a sergeant were awarded him, and even then the battalion was taken by surprise.  There was no surprise a few months later, however, when he was promoted over a score of classmates and made captain of his company.  It was an open secret that the commandant had said that if he had it all to do over again, Mr. Stanley would be made “first captain,” ­a rumor that big John Burton, the actual incumbent of that office, did not at all fancy.  Stanley was “square” and impartial.  His company was in admirable discipline, though many of his classmates growled and wished he were not “so confoundedly military.”  The second classmen, always the most critical judges of the qualifications of their seniors, conceded that he was more soldierly than any man of his year, but were unanimous in the opinion that he should show more deference to men of their standing in the corps.  The “yearlings” swore by him in any discussion as to the relative merits of the four captains; but with equal energy swore at him when contemplating that fateful volume known as “the skin book.”  The fourth classmen ­the “plebes” ­simply worshipped the ground he trod on, and as between General Sherman and Philip Stanley, it is safe to say these youngsters would have determined on the latter as the more suitable candidate for the office of general-in-chief.  Of course they admired the adjutant, ­the plebes always do that, ­and not infrequently to the exclusion of the other cadet officers; but there was something grand, to them, about this dark-eyed, dark-faced, dignified captain who never stooped to trifle with them; was always so precise and courteous, and yet so immeasurably distant.  They were ten times more afraid of him than they had been of Lieutenant Rolfe, who was their “tack” during camp, or of the great, handsome, kindly-voiced dragoon who succeeded him, Lieutenant Lee, of the ­th Cavalry.  They approved of this latter gentleman because he belonged to the regiment of which Mr. Stanley’s father was lieutenant-colonel, and to which it was understood Mr. Stanley was to be assigned on his graduation.  What they could not at all understand was that, once graduated, Mr. Stanley could step down from his high position in the battalion of cadets and become a mere file-closer.  Yes.  Stanley was too strict and soldierly to command that decidedly ephemeral tribute known as “popularity,” but no man in the corps of cadets was more thoroughly respected.  If there were flaws in the armor of his personal character they were not such as to be vigorously prodded by his comrades.  He had firm friends, ­devoted friends, who grew to honor and trust him more with every year; but, strong though they knew him to be, he had found his conqueror.  There was a story in the first class that in Stanley’s old leather writing-case was a sort of secret compartment, and in this compartment was treasured “a knot of ribbon blue” that had been worn last summer close under the dimpled white chin of pretty Nannie McKay.

And now on this moist May evening as he hastens back to barracks, Mr. Stanley spies a little group standing in front of the guard-house.  Lieutenant Lee is there, ­in his uniform now, ­and with him are the tall girl in the simple travelling-dress, and the trim, wiry, gray-moustached soldier whom we saw on the boat.  The rain is falling steadily, which accounts for and possibly excuses Mr. Lee’s retention of the young lady’s arm in his as he holds the umbrella over both; but the colonel no sooner catches sight of the officer of the day than his own umbrella is cast aside, and with light, eager, buoyant steps, father and son hasten to meet each other.  In an instant their hands are clasped, ­both hands, ­and through moistening eyes the veteran of years of service and the boy in whom his hopes are centred gaze into each other’s faces.

“Phil, ­my son!”

“Father!”

No other words.  It is the first meeting in two long years.  The area is deserted save by the smiling pair watching from under the dripping umbrella with eyes nearly as moist as the skies.  There is no one to comment or to scoff.  In the father’s heart, mingling with the deep joy at this reunion with his son, there wells up sudden, irrepressible sorrow.  “Ah, God!” he thinks.  “Could his mother but have lived to see him now!” Perhaps Philip reads it all in the strong yet tremulous clasp of those sinewy brown hands, but for the moment neither speaks again.  There are some joys so deep, some heart longings so overpowering, that many a man is forced to silence, or to a levity of manner which is utterly repugnant to him, in the effort to conceal from the world the tumult of emotion that so nearly makes him weep.  Who that has read that inimitable page will ever forget the meeting of that genial sire and gallant son in the grimy old railway car filled with the wounded from Antietam, in Doctor Holmes’s “My Search for the Captain?”

When Phil Stanley, still clinging to his father’s hand, turns to greet his sister and her handsome escort, he is suddenly aware of another group that has entered the area.  Two ladies, marshalled by his classmate, Mr. Pennock, are almost at his side, and one of them is the blue-eyed girl he loves.

CHAPTER III.

“AMANTIUM IRAE.”

Lovely as is West Point in May, it is hardly the best time for a visit there if one’s object be to see the cadets.  From early morn until late at night every hour is taken up with duties, academic or military.  Mothers, sisters, and sweethearts, whose eyes so eagerly follow the evolutions of the gray ranks, can only hope for a few words between drill and dress parade, or else in the shortest half-hour in all the world, ­that which intervenes ’twixt supper and evening “call to quarters.”  That Miss Nannie McKay should make frequent and unfavorable comment on this state of affairs goes without saying; yet, had she been enabled to see her beloved brother but once a month and her cadet friends at intervals almost as rare, that incomprehensible young damsel would have preferred the Point to any other place in the world.

It was now ten days since her arrival, and she had had perhaps three chats with Willy, who, luckily for him, though he could not realize it, was spending most of his time “confined to quarters,” and consequently out of much of the temptation he would otherwise have been in.  Mrs. McKay had been able to see very little more of the young man, but she had the prayerful consolation that if he could only be kept out of mischief a few days longer he would then be through with it all, out of danger of dismissal, actually graduated, and once more her own boy to monopolize as she chose.

It takes most mothers a long, long time to become reconciled to the complete usurpation of all their former rights by this new parent whom their boys are bound to serve, ­this anything but Alma Mater, ­the war school of the nation.  As for Miss Nan, though she made it a point to declaim vigorously at the fates that prevented her seeing more of her brother, it was wonderful how well she looked and in what blithe spirits she spent her days.  Regularly as the sun came around, before guard-mount in the morning and right after supper in the evening, she was sure to be on the south piazza of the old hotel, and when presently the cadet uniforms began to appear at the hedge, she, and others, would go tripping lightly down the path to meet the wearers, and then would follow the half-hour’s walk and chat in which she found such infinite delight.  So, too, could Mr. Stanley, had he been able to appear as her escort on all occasions; but despite his strong personal inclination and effort, this was by no means the case.  The little lady was singularly impartial in the distribution of her time, and only by being first applicant had he secured to himself the one long afternoon that had yet been vouchsafed them, ­the cadet half-holiday of Saturday.

But if Miss Nan found time hanging heavily on her hands at other hours of the day, there was one young lady at the hotel who did not, ­a young lady whom, by this time, she regarded with constantly deepening interest, ­Miriam Stanley.

Other girls, younger girls, who had found their ideals in the cadet gray, were compelled to spend hours of the twenty-four in waiting for the too brief half-hour in which it was possible to meet them; but Miss Stanley was very differently situated.  It was her first visit to the Point.  She met, and was glad to meet, all Philip’s friends and comrades; but it was plainly to be seen, said all the girls at Craney’s, that between her and the tall cavalry officer whom they best knew through cadet descriptions, there existed what they termed an “understanding,” if not an engagement.  Every day, when not prevented by duties, Mr. Lee would come stalking up from barracks, and presently away they would stroll together, ­a singularly handsome pair, as every one admitted.  One morning soon after the Stanleys’ arrival he appeared in saddle on his stylish bay, accompanied by an orderly leading another horse, side-saddled; and then, as by common impulse, all the girls promenading the piazzas, as was their wont, with arms entwining each other’s waists, came flocking about the south steps.  When Miss Stanley appeared in her riding-habit and was quickly swung up into saddle by her cavalier, and then, with a bright nod and smile for the entire group, she gathered the reins in her practised hand and rode briskly away, the sentiments of the fair spectators were best expressed, perhaps, in the remark of Miss McKay, ­

“What a shame it is that the cadets can’t ride!  I mean can’t ride ­that way,” she explained, with suggestive nod of her curly head towards the pair just trotting out upon the road around the Plain.  “They ride ­lots of them ­better than most of the officers.”

“Mr. Stanley for instance,” suggests a mischievous little minx with hazel eyes and laughter-loving mouth.

“Yes, Mr. Stanley, or Mr. Pennock, or Mr. Burton, or a dozen others I could name, not excepting my brother,” answers Miss Nan, stoutly, although those readily flushing cheeks of hers promptly throw out their signals of perturbation.  “Fancy Mr. Lee vaulting over his horse at the gallop as they do.”

“And yet Mr. Lee has taught them so much more than other instructors.  Several cadets have told me so.  He always does, first, everything he requires them to do; so he must be able to make that vault.”

“Will doesn’t say so by any means,” retorts Nannie, with something very like a pout; and as Will is a prime favorite with the entire party and the centre of a wide circle of interest, sympathy, and anxiety in those girlish hearts, their loyalty is proof against opinions that may not coincide with his.  “Miss Mischief” reads temporary defeat in the circle of bright faces and is stung to new effort, ­

“Well! there are cadets whose opinions you value quite as much as you do your brother’s, Nannie, and they have told me.”

“Who?” challenges Miss Nan, yet with averted face.  Thrice of late she has disagreed with Mr. Stanley about Willy’s troubles; has said things to him which she wishes she had left unsaid; and for two days now he has not sought her side as heretofore, though she knows he has been at the hotel to see his sister, and a little bird has told her he had a long talk with this same hazel-eyed girl.  She wants to know more about it, ­yet does not want to ask.

“Phil Stanley, for one,” is the not unexpected answer.

Somebody who appears to know all about it has written that when a girl is beginning to feel deep interest in a man she will say things decidedly detrimental to his character solely for the purpose of having them denied and for the pleasure of hearing him defended.  Is it this that prompts Miss McKay to retort? ­

“Mr. Stanley cares too little what his classmates think, and too much of what Mr. Lee may say or do.”

“Mr. Stanley isn’t the only one who thinks a deal of Lieutenant Lee,” is the spirited answer.  “Mr. Burton says he is the most popular tactical officer here, and many a cadet ­good friends of your brother’s, Nannie ­has said the same thing.  You don’t like him because Will doesn’t.”

“I wouldn’t like or respect any officer who reports cadets on suspicion,” is the stout reply.  “If he did that to any one else I would despise it as much as I do because Willy is the victim.”

The discussion is waxing hot.  “Miss Mischief’s” blood is up.  She likes Phil Stanley; she likes Mr. Lee; she has hosts of friends in the corps, and she is just as loyal and quite as pronounced in her views as her little adversary.  They are fond of each other, too, and were great chums all through the previous summer; but there is danger of a quarrel to-day.

“I don’t think you are just in that matter at all, Nannie.  I have heard cadets say that if they had been in Mr. Lee’s place or on officer-of-the-day duty they would have had to give Will that report you take so much to heart.  Everybody knows his voice.  Half the corps heard him call out to Mr. Pennock.”

“I don’t believe a single cadet who’s a friend of Will’s would say such a thing,” bursts in Miss Nan, her eyes blazing.

“He is a friend, and a warm friend, too.”

“You said there were several, Kitty, and I don’t believe it possible.”

“Well.  There were two or three.  If you don’t believe it, you can ask Mr. Stanley. He said it, and the others agreed.”

Fancy the mood in which she meets him this particular evening, when his card was brought to her door.  Twice has “Miss Mischief” essayed to enter the room and “make up.”  Conscience has been telling her savagely that in the impulse and sting of the moment she has given an unfair coloring to the whole matter.  Mr. Stanley had volunteered no such remark as that she so vehemently quoted.  Asked point blank whether he considered as given “on suspicion” the report which Mrs. McKay and Nannie so resented, he replied that he did not; and, when further pressed, he said that Will alone was blamable in the matter:  Mr. Lee had no alternative, if it was Mr. Lee who gave the report, and any other officer would have been compelled to do the same.  All this “Miss Mischief” would gladly have explained to Nannie could she have gained admission, but the latter “had a splitting headache,” and begged to be excused.

It has been such a lovely afternoon.  The halls were filled with cadets “on permit,” when she came out from the dining-room, but nothing but ill-luck seemed to attend her.  The young gentleman who had invited her to walk to Fort Putnam, most provokingly twisted an ankle at cavalry drill that very morning, and was sent to hospital. Now, if Mr. Stanley were all devotion, he would promptly tender his services as substitute.  Then she could take him to task and punish him for his disloyalty to Will.  But Mr. Stanley was not to be seen:  “Gone off with another girl,” was the announcement made to her by Mr. Werrick, a youth who dearly loved a joke, and who saw no need of explaining that the other girl was his own sister.  Sorely disappointed, yet hardly knowing why, she accepted her mother’s invitation to go with her to the barracks where Will was promenading the area on what Mr. Werrick called “one of his perennial punishment tours.”  She went, of course; but the distant sight of poor Will, duly equipped as a sentry, dismally tramping up and down the asphalt, added fuel to the inward fire that consumed her.  The mother’s heart, too, yearned over her boy, ­a victim to cruel regulations and crueler task-masters.  “What was the use of the government’s enticing young men away from their comfortable homes,” Mrs. McKay had once indignantly written, “unless it could make them happy?” It was a question the “tactical department” could not answer, but it thought volumes.

But now evening had come, and with it Mr. Stanley’s card.  Nan’s heart gave a bound, but she went down-stairs with due deliberation.  She had his card in her hand as she reached the hall, and was twisting it in her fingers.  Yes.  There he stood on the north piazza, Pennock with him, and one or two others of the graduating class.  They were chatting laughingly with Miss Stanley, “Miss Mischief,” a bevy of girls, and a matron or two, but she knew well his eyes would be on watch for her.  They were.  He saw her instantly; bowed, smiled, but, to her surprise, continued his conversation with a lady seated near the door.  What could it mean?  Irresolute she stood there a moment, waiting for him to come forward; but though she saw that twice his eyes sought hers, he was still bending courteously and listening to the voluble words of the somewhat elderly dame who claimed his attention.  Nan began to rebel against that woman from the bottom of her heart.  What was she to do?  Here was his card.  In response she had come down to receive him.  She meant to be very cool from the first moment; to provoke him to inquiry as to the cause of such unusual conduct, and then to upbraid him for his disloyalty to her brother.  She certainly meant that he should feel the weight of her displeasure; but then ­then ­after he had been made to suffer, if he was properly contrite, and said so, and looked it, and begged to be forgiven, why then, perhaps she might be brought to condone it in a measure and be good friends again.  It was clearly his duty, however, to come and greet her, not hers to go to the laughing group.  The old lady was the only one among them whom she did not know, ­a new arrival.  Just then Miss Stanley looked round, saw her, and signalled smilingly to her to come and join them.  Slowly she walked towards the little party, still twirling the card in her taper fingers.

“Looking for anybody, Nan?” blithely hails “Miss Mischief.”  “Who is it?  I see you have his card.”

For once Nannie’s voice fails her, and she knows not what to say.  Before she can frame an answer there is a rustle of skirts and a light foot-fall behind her, and she hears the voice of a girl whom she never has liked one bit.

“Oh!  You’re here, are you, Mr. Stanley!  Why, I’ve been waiting at least a quarter of an hour.  Did you send up your card?”

“I did; full ten minutes ago.  Was it not brought to your room?”

“No, indeed!  I’ve been sitting there writing, and only came down because I had promised Mr. Fearn that he should have ten minutes, and it is nearly his time now.  Where do you suppose they could have sent it?”

Poor little Nan!  It has been a hard day for her, but this is just too much.  She turns quickly, and, hardly knowing whither she goes, dodges past the party of cadets and girls now blocking the stairway and preventing flight to her room, hurries out the south door and around to the west piazza, and there, leaning against a pillar, is striving to hide her blazing cheeks, ­all in less than a minute.

Stanley sees through the entire situation with the quick intuition of a lover.  She has not treated him kindly of late.  She has been capricious and unjust on several occasions, but there is no time to think of that now.  She is in distress, and that is more than enough for him.

“Here comes Mr. Fearn himself to claim his walk, so I will go and find out about the card,” he says, and blesses that little rat of a bell-boy as he hastens away.

Out on the piazza he finds her alone, yet with half a dozen people hovering nigh.  The hush of twilight is over the beautiful old Point.  The moist breath of the coming night, cool and sweet, floats down upon them from the deep gorges on the rugged flank of Cro’ Nest, and rises from the thickly lacing branches of the cedars on the river-bank below.  A flawless mirror in its grand and reflected framework of cliff and crag and beetling precipice, the Hudson stretches away northward unruffled by the faintest cat’s-paw of a breeze.  Far beyond the huge black battlements of Storm King and the purpled scaur of Breakneck the night lights of the distant city are twinkling through the gathering darkness, and tiny dots of silvery flame down in the cool depths beneath them reflect the faint glimmer from the cloudless heaven where ­

     “The sentinel stars set their watch in the sky.”

The hush of the sacred hour has fallen on every lip save those of the merry party in the hall, where laugh and chatter and flaring gas-light bid defiance to influences such as hold their sway over souls brought face to face with Nature in this, her loveliest haunt on earth.

Phil Stanley’s heart is throbbing as he steps quickly to her side.  Well, indeed, she knows his foot-fall; knows he is coming; almost knows why he comes.  She is burning with a sense of humiliation, wounded pride, maidenly wrath, and displeasure.  All day long everything has gone agley.  Could she but flee to her room and hide her flaming cheeks and cry her heart out, it would be relief inexpressible, but her retreat is cut off.  She cannot escape.  She cannot face those keen-eyed watchers in the hall-ways.  Oh! it is almost maddening that she should have been so ­so fooled!  Every one must know she came down to meet Phil Stanley when his card was meant for another girl, ­that girl of all others!  All aflame with indignation as she is, she yet means to freeze him if she can only control herself.

“Miss Nannie,” he murmurs, quick and low, “I see that a blunder has been made, but I don’t believe the others saw it.  Give me just a few minutes.  Come down the walk with me.  I cannot talk with you here ­now, and there is so much I want to say.”  He bends over her pleadingly, but her eyes are fixed far away up the dark wooded valley beyond the white shafts of the cemetery, gleaming in the first beams of the rising moon.  She makes no reply for a moment.  She does not withdraw them when finally she answers, impressively, ­

“Thank you, Mr. Stanley, but I must be excused from interfering with your engagements.”

“There is no engagement now,” he promptly replies; “and I greatly want to speak with you.  Have you been quite kind to me of late?  Have I not a right to know what has brought about the change?”

“You do not seem to have sought opportunity to inquire,” ­very cool and dignified now.

“Pardon me.  Three times this week I have asked for a walk, and you have had previous engagements.”

She has torn to bits and thrown away the card that was in her hand.  Now she is tugging at the bunch of bell buttons, each graven with the monogram of some cadet friend, that hangs as usual by its tiny golden chain.  She wants to say that he has found speedy consolation in the society of “that other girl” of whom Mr. Werrick spoke, but not for the world would she seem jealous.

“You could have seen me this afternoon, had there been any matters you wished explained,” she says.  “I presume you were more agreeably occupied.”

“I find no delight in formal visits,” he answers, quietly; “but my sister wished to return calls and asked me to show her about the post.”

Then it was his sister.  Not “that other girl!” Still she must not let him see it makes her glad.  She needs a pretext for her wrath.  She must make him feel it in some way.  This is not at all in accordance with the mental private rehearsals she has been having.  There is still that direful matter of Will’s report for “shouting from window of barracks,” and “Miss Mischief’s” equally direful report of Mr. Stanley’s remarks thereon.

“I thought you were a loyal friend of Willy’s,” she says, turning suddenly upon him.

“I was ­and am,” he answers simply.

“And yet I’m told you said it was all his own fault, and that you yourself would have given him the report that so nearly ’found him on demerit.’  A report on suspicion, too,” she adds, with scorn in her tone.

Mr. Stanley is silent a moment.

“You have heard a very unfair account of my words,” he says at last.  “I have volunteered no opinions on the subject.  In answer to direct question I have said that it was not justifiable to call that a report on suspicion.”

“But you said you would have given it yourself.”

“I said that, as officer of the day, I would have been compelled to do so.  I could not have signed my certificate otherwise.”

She turns away in speechless indignation.  What makes it all well-nigh intolerable is that he is by no means on the defensive.  He is patient, gentle, but decidedly superior.  Not at all what she wanted.  Not at all eager to explain, argue, or implore.  Not at all the tearful penitent she has pictured in her plans.  She must bring him to a realizing sense of the enormity of his conduct.  Disloyalty to Will is treason to her.

“And yet ­you say you have kept, and that you value, that knot of blue ribbon that I gave you ­or that you took ­last summer.  I did not suppose that you would so soon prove to be ­no friend to Willy, or ­”

“Or what, Miss Nannie?” he asks.  His face is growing white, but he controls the tremor in his voice.  She does not see.  Her eyes are downcast and her face averted now, but she goes on desperately.

“Well, never mind that now; but it seems to me that such friendship is ­simply worthless.”

She has taken the plunge and said her say, but the last words are spoken with sinking inflection, followed instantly by a sinking heart.  He makes no answer whatever.  She dares not look up into his face to see the effect of her stab.  He stands there silent only an instant; then raises his cap, turns, and leaves her.

Sunday comes and goes without a sight of him except in the line of officers at parade.  That night she goes early to her room, and on the bureau finds a little box securely tied, sealed, and addressed to her in his well-known hand.  It contains a note and some soft object carefully wrapped in tissue-paper.  The note is brief enough: 

“It is not easy to part with this, for it is all I have that was yours to give, but even this must be returned to you after what you said last night.

“Miss Nannie, you may some time think more highly of my friendship for your brother than you do now, and then, perhaps, will realize that you were very unjust.  Should that time come I shall be glad to have this again.”

It was hardly necessary to open the little packet as she did.  She knew well enough it could contain only that

     “Knot of ribbon blue.”

CHAPTER IV.

“THE WOMAN TEMPTED ME.”

June is here.  The examinations are in full blast.  The Point is thronged with visitors and every hostelrie in the neighborhood has opened wide its doors to accommodate the swarms of people interested in the graduating exercises and eager for the graduating ball.  Pretty girls there are in force, and at Craney’s they are living three and four in a room; the joy of being really there on the Point, near the cadets, aroused by the morning gun and shrill piping of the reveille, saluted hourly by the notes of the bugle, enabled to see the gray uniforms half a dozen times a day and to actually speak or walk with the wearers half an hour out of twenty-four whole ones, being apparent compensation for any crowding or discomfort.  Indeed, crowded as they are, the girls at Craney’s are objects of boundless envy to those whom the Fates have consigned to the resorts down around the picturesque but distant “Falls.”  There is a little coterie at “Hawkshurst” that is fiercely jealous of the sisterhood in the favored nook at the north edge of the Plain, and one of their number, who is believed to have completely subjugated that universal favorite, Cadet McKay, has been heard to say that she thought it an outrage that they had to come home so early in the evening and mope away the time without a single cadet, when up there at Craney’s the halls and piazzas were full of gray-coats and bell buttons every night until tattoo.

A very brilliant and pretty girl she is, too, and neither Mrs. McKay nor Nannie can wonder at it that Will’s few leisure moments are monopolized.  “You are going to have me all to yourself next week, little mother,” he laughingly explains; “and goodness knows when I’m going to see Miss Waring again.”  And though neither mother nor sister is at all satisfied with the state of affairs, both are too unselfish to interpose.  How many an hour have mothers and, sometimes, sisters waited in loneliness at the old hotel for boys whom some other fellow’s sister was holding in silken fetters somewhere down in shady “Flirtation!”

It was with relief inexpressible that Mrs. McKay and Uncle Jack had hailed the coming of the 1st of June.  With a margin of only two demerits Will had safely weathered the reefs and was practically safe, ­safe at last.  He had passed brilliantly in engineering; had been saved by his prompt and ready answers the consequences of a “fess” with clean black-board in ordnance and gunnery; had won a ringing, though involuntary, round of applause from the crowded galleries of the riding-hall by daring horsemanship, and he was now within seven days of the prized diploma and his commission.  “For heaven’s sake, Billy,” pleaded big Burton, the first captain, “don’t do any thing to ruin your chances now!  I’ve just been talking with your mother and Miss Nannie, and I declare I never saw that little sister of yours looking so white and worried.”

McKay laughs, yet his laugh is not light-hearted.  He wonders if Burton has the faintest intuition that at this moment he is planning an escapade that means nothing short of dismissal if detected.  Down in the bottom of his soul he knows he is a fool to have made the rash and boastful pledge to which he now stands committed.  Yet he has never “backed out” before, and now ­he would dare a dozen dismissals rather than that she should have a chance to say, “I knew you would not come.”

That very afternoon, just after the ride in the hall before the Board of Visitors, Miss Waring had been pathetically lamenting that with another week they were to part, and that she had seen next to nothing of him since her arrival.

“If you only could get down to Hawkshurst!” she cried.  “I’m sure when my cousin Frank was in the corps he used to ‘run it’ down to Cozzens’s to see Cousin Kate, ­and that was what made her Cousin Kate to me,” she adds, with sudden dropping of the eyelids that is wondrously effective.

“Easily done!” recklessly answers McKay, whose boyish heart is set to hammer-like beating by the closing sentence.  “I didn’t know you sat up so late there, or I would have come before.  Of course I have to be here at ‘taps.’  No one can escape that.”

“Oh, ­but really, Mr. McKay, I did not mean it!  I would not have you run such a risk for worlds!  I meant ­some other way.”  And so she protests, although her eyes dance with excitement and delight.  What a feather this in her cap of coquetry!  What a triumph over the other girls, ­especially that hateful set at Craney’s!  What a delicious confidence to impart to all the little coterie at Hawkshurst!  How they must envy her the romance, the danger, the daring, the devotion of such an adventure ­for her sake!  Of late years such tales had been rare.  Girls worth the winning simply would not permit so rash a project, and their example carried weight.  But here at “Hawkshurst” was a lively young brood, chaperoned by a matron as wild as her charges and but little older, and eager one and all for any glory or distinction that could pique the pride or stir the envy of “that Craney set.”  It was too much for a girl of Sallie Waring’s type.  Her eyes have a dangerous gleam, her cheeks a witching glow; she clings tighter to his arm as she looks up in his face.

“And yet ­wouldn’t it be lovely? ­To think of seeing you there! ­are you sure there’d be no danger?”

“Be on the north piazza about quarter of eleven,” is the prompt reply.  “I’ll wear a dark suit, eye-glass, brown moustache, etc.  Call me Mr. Freeman while strangers are around.  There goes the parade drum. Au revoir!” and he darts away.  Cadet Captain Stanley, inspecting his company a few moments later, stops in front and gravely rebukes him, ­

“You are not properly shaved, McKay.”

“I shaved this morning,” is the somewhat sullen reply, while an angry flush shoots up towards the blue eyes.

“No razor has touched your upper lip, however, and I expect the class to observe regulations in this company, demerit or no demerit,” is the firm, quiet answer, and the young captain passes on to the next man.  McKay grits his teeth.

“Only a week more of it, thank God!” he mutters, when sure that Stanley is beyond ear-shot.

Three hours more and “taps” is sounded.  All along the brilliant façade of barracks there is sudden and simultaneous “dousing of the glim” and a rush of the cadets to their narrow nests.  There is a minute of banging doors and hurrying footsteps, and gruff queries of “All in?” as the cadet officers flit from room to room in each division to see that lights are out and every man in bed.  Then forth they come from every hall-way; tripping lightly down the stone steps and converging on the guard-house, where stand at the door-way the dark forms of the officer in charge and the cadet officer of the day.  Each in turn halts, salutes, and makes his precise report; and when the last subdivision is reported, the executive officer is assured that the battalion of cadets is present in barracks, and at the moment of inspection at least, in bed.  Presumably, they remain so.

Two minutes after inspection, however, Mr. McKay is out of bed again and fumbling about in his alcove.  His room-mate sleepily inquires from beyond the partition what he wants in the dark, but is too long accustomed to his vagaries to expect definite information.  When Mr. McKay slips softly out into the hall, after careful reconnaissance of the guard-house windows, his chum is soundly asleep and dreaming of no worse freak on Billy’s part than a raid around barracks.

It is so near graduation that the rules are relaxed, and in every first classman’s room the tailor’s handiwork is hanging among the gray uniforms.  It is a dark suit of this civilian dress that Billy dons as he emerges from the blankets.  A natty Derby is perched upon his curly pate, and a monocle hangs by its string.  But he cannot light his gas and arrange the soft brown moustache with which he proposes to decorate his upper lip.  He must run into Stanley’s, ­the “tower” room, at the north end of his hall.

Phil looks up from the copy of “Military Law” which he is diligently studying.  As “inspector of subdivision,” his light is burned until eleven.

“You do make an uncommonly swell young cit, Billy,” he says, pleasantly.  “Doesn’t he, Mack?” he continues, appealing to his room-mate, who, lying flat on his back with his head towards the light and a pair of muscular legs in white trousers displayed on top of a pile of blankets, is striving to make out the vacancies in a recent Army Register.  “Mack” rolls over and lazily expresses his approval.

“I’d do pretty well if I had my moustache out; I meant to get the start of you fellows, but you’re so meanly jealous, you blocked the game, Stan.”

All the rancor is gone now.  He well knows that Stanley was right.

“Sorry to have had to ‘row’ you about that, Billy,” says the captain, gently.  “You know I can’t let one man go and not a dozen others.”

“Oh, hang it all!  What’s the difference when time’s so nearly up?” responds McKay, as he goes over to the little wood-framed mirror that stands on the iron mantel.  “Here’s a substitute, though!  How’s this for a moustache?” he asks, as he turns and faces them.  Then he starts for the door.  Almost in an instant Stanley is up and after him.  Just at the head of the iron stairs he hails and halts him.

“Billy!  You are not going out of barracks?”

Unwillingly McKay yields to the pressure of the firm hand laid on his shoulder, and turns.

“Suppose I were, Stanley.  What danger is there?  Lee inspected last night, and even he wouldn’t make such a plan to trip me.  Who ever heard of a ‘tack’s’ inspecting after taps two successive nights?”

“There’s no reason why it should not be done, and several reasons why it should,” is the uncompromising reply.  “Don’t risk your commission now, Billy, in any mad scheme.  Come back and take those things off.  Come!”

“Blatherskite!  Don’t hang on to me like a pick-pocket, Stan.  Let me go,” says McKay, half vexed, half laughing.  “I’ve got to go, man,” he says, more seriously.  “I’ve promised.”

A sudden light seems to come to Stanley.  Even in the feeble gleam from the gas-jet in the lower hall McKay can see the look of consternation that shoots across his face.

“You don’t mean ­you’re not going down to Hawkshurst, Billy?”

“Why not to Hawkshurst, if anywhere at all?” is the sullen reply.

“Why?  Because you are risking your whole future, ­your profession, your good name, McKay.  You’re risking your mother’s heart for the sport of a girl who is simply toying with you ­”

“Take care, Stanley.  Say what you like to me about myself, but not a word about her.”

“This is no time for sentiment, McKay.  I have known Miss Waring three years; you, perhaps three weeks.  I tell you solemnly that if she has tempted you to ‘run it’ down there to see her it is simply to boast of a new triumph to the silly pack by whom she is surrounded.  I tell you she ­”

“You tell me nothing!  I don’t allow any man to speak in that way of a woman who is my friend,” says Billy, with much majesty of mien.  “Take your hand off, Stanley,” he adds, coldly.  “I might have had some respect for your counsel if you had had the least ­for my feelings.”  And wrenching his shoulder away, McKay speeds quickly down the stairs, leaving his comrade speechless and sorrowing in the darkness above.

In the lower hall he stops and peers cautiously over towards the guard-house.  The lights are burning brilliantly up in the room of the officer in charge, and the red sash of the officer of the day shows through the open door-way beneath.  Now is his time, for there is no one looking.  One quick leap through the dim stream of light from the lantern at his back and he will be in the dark area, and can pick his noiseless way to the shadows beyond.  It is an easy thing to gain the foot-path beyond the old retaining wall back of the guard-house, scud away under the trees along the winding ascent towards Fort Putnam, until he meets the back-road half-way up the heights; then turn southward through the rocky cuts and forest aisles until he reaches the main highway; then follow on through the beautiful groves, through the quiet village, across the bridge that spans the stream above the falls, and then, only a few hundred yards beyond, there lies Hawkshurst and its bevy of excited, whispering, applauding, delighted girls.  If he meet officers, all he has to do is put on a bold face and trust to his disguise.  He means to have a glorious time and be back, tingling with satisfaction on his exploit, by a little after midnight.  In five minutes his quarrel with Stanley is forgotten, and, all alert and eager, he is half-way up the heights and out of sight or hearing of the barracks.

The roads are well-nigh deserted.  He meets one or two squads of soldiers coming back from “pass” at the Falls, but no one else.  The omnibuses and carriages bearing home those visitors who have spent the evening listening to the band at the Point are all by this time out of the way, and it is early for officers to be returning from evening calls at the lower hotel.  The chances are two to one that he will pass the village without obstacle of any kind.  Billy’s spirits rise with the occasion, and he concludes that a cigarette is the one thing needful to complete his disguise and add to the general nonchalance of his appearance.  Having no matches he waits until he reaches the northern outskirts of the Falls, and then steps boldly into the first bar he sees and helps himself.

Coming forth again he throws wide open the swinging screen doors, and a broad belt of light is flashed across the dusty highway just in front of a rapidly-driven carriage coming north.  The mettlesome horses swerve and shy.  The occupants are suddenly whirled from their reposeful attitudes, though, fortunately, not from their seats.  A “top hat” goes spinning out into the roadway, and a fan flies through the midst of the glare.  The driver promptly checks his team and backs them just as Billy, all impulsive courtesy, leaps out into the street; picks up the hat with one hand, the fan with the other, and restores them with a bow to their owners.  Only in the nick of time does he recollect himself and crush down the jovial impulse to hail by name Colonel Stanley and his daughter Miriam.  The sight of a cavalry uniform and Lieutenant Lee’s tall figure on the forward seat has, however, its restraining influence, and he turns quickly away ­unrecognized.

But alas for Billy!  Only two days before had the distribution been made, and every man in the graduating class was already wearing the beautiful token of their brotherhood.  The civilian garb, the Derby hat, the monocle, the stick, the cigarette, and the false moustache were all very well in their way, but in the beam of light from the windows of that ill-starred saloon there flashed upon his hand a gem that two pairs of quick, though reluctant eyes could not and did not fail to see, ­the class ring of 187-.

CHAPTER V.

A MIDNIGHT INSPECTION.

There was a sense of constraint among the occupants of Colonel Stanley’s carriage as they were driven back to the Point.  They had been calling on old friends of his among the pretty villas below the Falls; had been chatting joyously until that sudden swerve that pitched the colonel’s hat and Miriam’s fan into the dust, and the veteran cavalryman could not account for the lull that followed.  Miriam had instantly grasped the situation.  All her father’s stories of cadet days had enabled her to understand at once that here was a cadet ­a classmate of Philip’s ­“running it” in disguise.  Mr. Lee, of course, needed no information on the subject.  What she hoped was, that he had not seen; but the cloud on his frank, handsome face still hovered there, and she knew him too well not to see that he understood everything.  And now what was his duty?  Something told her that an inspection of barracks would be made immediately upon his return to the Point, and in that way the name of the absentee be discovered.  She knew the regulation every cadet was expected to obey and every officer on honor to enforce.  She knew that every cadet found absent from his quarters after taps was called upon by the commandant for prompt account of his whereabouts, and if unable to say that he was on cadet limits during the period of his absence, dismissal stared him in the face.

The colonel did most of the talking on the way back to the south gate.  Once within the portals he called to the driver to stop at the Mess.  “I’m thirsty,” said the jovial warrior, “and I want a julep and a fresh cigar.  You, too, might have a claret punch, Mimi; you are drooping a little to-night.  What is it, daughter, ­tired?”

“Yes, tired and a little headachy.”  Then sudden thought occurs to her.  “If you don’t mind I think I will go right on to the hotel.  Then you and Mr. Lee can enjoy your cigars at leisure.”  She knows well that Romney Lee is just the last man to let her drive on unescorted.  She can hold him ten or fifteen minutes, at least, and by that time if the reckless boy down the road has taken warning and scurried back he can reach the barracks before inspection is made.

“Indeed, Miss Miriam, I’m not to be disposed of so summarily,” he promptly answers.  “I’ll see you safely to the hotel.  You’ll excuse me, colonel?”

“Certainly, certainly, Lee.  I suppose I’ll see you later,” responds the veteran.  They leave him at the Mess and resume their way, and Lee takes the vacated seat by her side.  There is something he longs to say to her, ­something that has been quivering on his lips and throbbing at his heart for many a long day.  She is a queenly woman, ­this dark-eyed, stately army girl.  It is only two years since, her school-days finished, she has returned to her father’s roof on the far frontier and resumed the gay garrison life that so charmed her when a child. Then a loving mother had been her guide, but during her long sojourn at school the blow had fallen that so wrenched her father’s heart and left her motherless.  Since her graduation she alone has been the joy of the old soldier’s home, and sunshine and beauty have again gladdened his life.  She would be less than woman did she not know that here now was another soldier, brave, courteous, and gentle, who longed to win her from that home to his own, ­to call her by the sacred name of wife.  She knew how her father trusted and Phil looked up to him.  She knew that down in her own heart of hearts there was pleading for him even now, but as yet no word has been spoken.  She is not the girl to signal, “speak, and the prize is yours.”  He has looked in vain for a symptom that bids him hope for more than loyal friendship.

But to-night as they reach the brightly-lighted piazza at Craney’s it is she who bids him stay.

“Don’t go just yet,” she falters.

“I feared you were tired and wished to go to your room,” he answers, gently.

“Would you mind asking if there are letters for me?” she says.  It is anything to gain time, and he goes at her behest, but ­oh, luckless fate! ­’tis a false move.

She sees him stride away through the groups on the piazza; sees the commandant meet him with one of his assistants; sees that there is earnest consultation in low tone, and that then the others hasten down the steps and disappear in the darkness.  She hears him say, “I’ll follow in a moment, sir,” and something tells her that what she dreads has come to pass.  Presently he returns to her with the information that there are no letters; then raises his cap, and, in the old Southern and cadet fashion, extends his hand.

“You are not going, Mr. Lee?” again she falters.

“I have to, Miss Stanley.”

Slowly she puts forth her hand and lays it in his.

“I ­I wish you did not have to go. Tell me,” she says, impulsively, imploringly, “are you going to inspect?”

He bows his head.

“It is already ordered, Miss Miriam,” he says; “I must go at once.  Good-night.”

Dazed and distressed she turns at once, and is confronted by a pallid little maid with wild, blue eyes.

“Oh, Miss Stanley!” is the wail that greets her.  “I could not help hearing, and ­if it should be Willy!”

“Come with me, Nannie,” she whispers, as her arm enfolds her.  “Come to my room.”

Meantime, there has been a breeze at the barracks.  A batch of yearlings, by way of celebrating their release from plebedom, have hit on a time-honored scheme.  Just about the same moment that disclosed to the eyes of Lieutenant Lee the class ring gleaming on the finger of that nattily-dressed young civilian, his comrade, the dozing officer in charge, was started to his feet by a thunder-clap, a vivid flash that lighted up the whole area of barracks, and an explosion that rattled the plaster in the guard-house chimneys.  One thing the commandant wouldn’t stand was disorder after “taps,” and, in accordance with strict instructions, Lieutenant Lawrence sent a drummer-boy at once to find the colonel and tell him what had taken place, while he himself stirred up the cadet officer of the day and began an investigation.  Half the corps by this time were up and chuckling with glee at their darkened windows; and as these subdued but still audible demonstrations of sympathy and satisfaction did not cease on his arrival, the colonel promptly sent for his entire force of assistants to conduct the inspection already ordered.  Already one or two “bull’s-eyes” were flitting out from the officers’ angle.

But the piece of boyish mischief that brings such keen delight to the youngsters in the battalion strikes terror to the heart of Philip Stanley.  He knows all too well that an immediate inspection will be the result, and then, what is to become of McKay?  With keen anxiety, he goes to the hall window overlooking the area, and watches the course of events.  A peep into McKay’s room shows that he is still absent and that his room-mate, if disturbed at all by the “yearling fireworks,” has gone to sleep again.  Stanley sees the commandant stride under the gas-lamp in the area; sees the gathering of the “bull’s-eyes,” and his heart well-nigh fails him.  Still he watches until there can be no doubt that the inspection is already begun.  Then, half credulous, all delighted, he notes that it is not Mr. Lee, but young Mr. Lawrence, the officer in charge, who is coming straight towards “B” Company, lantern in hand.  Not waiting for the coming of the former, the colonel has directed another officer ­not a company commander ­to inspect for him.

There is but one way to save Billy now.

In less than half a minute Stanley has darted into McKay’s room; has slung his chevroned coat under the bed; has slipped beneath the sheet and coverlet, and now, breathlessly, he listens.  He hears the inspector moving from room to room on the ground floor; hears him spring up the iron stair; hears him enter his own, ­the tower room at the north end of the hall, ­and there he stops, surprised, evidently, to find Cadet Captain Stanley absent from his quarters.  Then his steps are heard again.  He enters the opposite room at the north end.  That is all right! and now he’s coming here.  “Now for it!” says Stanley to himself, as he throws his white-sleeved arm over his head just as he has so often seen Billy do, and turning his face to the wall, burrows deep in the pillow and pulls the sheet well up to his chin.  The door softly opens; the “bull’s-eye” flashes its gleam first on one bed, then on the other.  “All right here,” is the inspector’s mental verdict as he pops out again suddenly as he entered.  Billy McKay, the scapegrace, is safe and Stanley has time to think over the situation.

At the very worst, as he will be able to say he was “visiting in barracks” when found absent, his own punishment will not be serious.  But this is not what troubles him.  Demerit for the graduating class ceases to count after the 1st of June, and the individual sense of honor and duty is about the only restraint against lapses of discipline.  Stanley hates to think that others may now believe him deaf to this obligation.  He would far rather have had this happen when demerit and “confinements” in due proportion had been his award, but there is no use repining.  It is a sacrifice to save ­her brother.

When half an hour later his classmate, the officer of the day, enters the tower room in search of him, Stanley is there and calmly says, “I was visiting in barracks,” in answer to his question; and finally, when morning comes, Mr. Billy McKay nearly sleeps through reveille as a consequence of his night-prowling; but his absence, despite the simultaneous inspection of every company in barracks, has not been detected.  With one exception every bed has had its apparently soundly sleeping occupant.  The young scamps who caused all the trouble have escaped scot-free, and the corps can hardly believe their own ears, and Billy McKay is stunned and perplexed when it is noised abroad that the only man “hived absent” was the captain of Company “B.”

It so happens that both times he goes to find Stanley that day he misses him.  “The commandant sent for him an hour ago,” says Mr. McFarland, his room-mate, “and I’m blessed if I know what keeps him.  Something about last night’s doings, I’m afraid.”

This, in itself, is enough to make him worry, but the next thing he hears is worse.  Just at evening call to quarters, Jim Burton comes to his room.

“Have you heard anything about this report of Stanley’s last night?” he asks, and McKay, ordinarily so frank, is guarded now in his reply.  For half an hour he has been pacing his room alone.  McFarland’s revelations have set him to thinking.  It is evident that the colonel’s suspicions are aroused.  It is probable that it is known that some cadet was “running it” the night before.  From the simple fact that he is not already in arrest he knows that Mr. Lee did not recognize him, yet the secret has leaked out in some way, and an effort is being made to discover the culprit.  Already he has begun to wonder if the game was really worth the candle.  He saw her, ’tis true, and had half an hour’s whispered chat with her, interrupted not infrequently by giggling and impetuous rushes from the other girls.  They had sworn melodramatically never to reveal that it was he who came, but Billy begins to have his doubts.  “It ends my career if I’m found out,” he reflects, “whereas they can’t do much to Stan for visiting.”  And thus communing with himself, he has decided to guard his secret against all comers, ­at least for the present.  And so he is non-committal in his reply to Burton.

“What about it?” he asks.

“Why, it’s simply this, Billy:  Little Magee, the fifer, is on orderly duty to-day, and he heard much of the talk, and I got it out of him.  Somebody was running it last night, and was seen down by Cozzens’s gate.  Stanley was the only absentee, hence Stanley would naturally be the man suspected, but he says he wasn’t out of the barracks.  The conclusion is inevitable that he was filling the other fellow’s place, and the colonel is hopping mad.  It looks as though there were collusion between them.  Now, Billy, all I’ve got to say is that the man he’s shielding ought to step forward and relieve him at once.  There comes the sentry and I must go.”

Relieve him?  Yes; but what means that for me? thinks poor McKay.  Dismissal; a heart break for mother.  No!  It is too much to face; he must think it over.  He never goes near Stanley all that night.  He fears to meet him, or the morrow.  His heart misgives him when he is told that there has been a long conference in the office.  He turns white with apprehension when they fall in for parade, and he notes that it is Phillips, their first lieutenant, who draws sword and takes command of the company; but a few moments later his heart gives one wild bound, then seems to sink into the ground beneath his feet, when the adjutant drops the point of his sword, lets it dangle by the gold knot at his wrist, whips a folded paper from his sash, and far over the plain his clear young voice proclaims the stern order: 

“Cadet Captain Stanley is hereby placed in arrest and confined to his quarters.  Charge ­conniving at concealing the absence of a cadet from inspection after ‘taps,’ eleven ­eleven-fifteen P.M., on the 7th instant.

“By order of Lieutenant-Colonel Putnam.”

CHAPTER VI.

THE LAST DANCE.

The blithest day of all the year has come.  The graduating ball takes place to-night.  The Point is thronged with joyous visitors, and yet over all there hovers a shadow.  In the midst of all this gayety and congratulation there hides a core of sorrow.  Voices lower and soft eyes turn in sympathy when certain sad faces are seen.  There is one subject on which the cadets simply refuse to talk, and there are two of the graduating class who do not appear at the hotel at all.  One is Mr. McKay, whose absence is alleged to be because of confinements he has to serve; the other is Philip Stanley, still in close arrest, and the latter has cancelled his engagements for the ball.

There had been a few days in which Miss McKay, forgetting or having obtained absolution for her unguarded remarks on the promenade deck of the steamer, had begun to be seen a great deal with Miss Stanley.  She had even blushingly shaken hands with big Lieutenant Lee, whose kind brown eyes were full of fun and playfulness whenever he greeted her.  But it was noticed that something, all of a sudden, had occurred to mar the growing intimacy; then that the once blithe little lady was looking white and sorrowful; that she avoided Miss Stanley for two whole days, and that her blue eyes watched wistfully for some one who did not come, ­“Mr. Stanley, no doubt,” was the diagnosis of the case by “Miss Mischief” and others.

Then, like a thunder-clap, came the order for Phil Stanley’s arrest, and then there were other sad faces.  Miriam Stanley’s dark eyes were not only troubled, but down in their depths was a gleam of suppressed indignation that people knew not how to explain.  Colonel Stanley, to whom every one had been drawn from the first, now appeared very stern and grave; the joy had vanished from his face.  Mrs. McKay was flitting about the parlors tearfully thankful that “it wasn’t her boy.”  Nannie had grown whiter still, and very “absent” and silent.  Mr. Lee did not come at all.

Then there was startling news!  An outbreak, long smouldering, had just occurred at the great reservation of the Spirit Wolf; the agent and several of his men had been massacred, their women carried away into a captivity whose horrors beggar all description, and two troops ­hardly sixscore men ­of Colonel Stanley’s regiment were already in pursuit.  Leaving his daughter to the care of an old friend at Craney’s, and after a brief interview with his boy at barracks, the old soldier who had come eastward with such glad anticipation turned promptly back to the field of duty.  He had taken the first train and was already beyond the Missouri.  Almost immediately after the colonel’s departure, Mr. Lee had come to the hotel and was seen to have a brief but earnest talk with Miss Stanley on the north piazza, ­a talk from which she had gone direct to her room and did not reappear for hours, while he, who usually had a genial, kindly word for every one, had turned abruptly down the north steps as though to avoid the crowded halls and piazzas, and so returned to the barracks.

But now, this lovely June morning the news from the far West is still more direful.  Hundreds of savages have taken the war-path, and murder is the burden of every tale from around their reservation, but ­this is the day of “last parade” and the graduating ball, and people cannot afford time to think of such grewsome matter.  All the same, they note that Mr. Lee comes no more to the hotel, and a rumor is in circulation that he has begged to be relieved from duty at the Point and ordered to join his troop now in the field against hostile Indians.

Nannie McKay is looking like a pathetic shadow of her former self as she comes down-stairs to fulfil an engagement with a cadet admirer.  She neglects no duty of the kind towards Willy’s friends and hers, but she is drooping and listless.  Uncle Jack is worried about her; so, too, is mamma, though the latter is so wrapped up in the graduation of her boy that she has little time to think of pallid cheeks and mournful eyes.  It is all arranged that they are to sail for Europe the 1st of July, and the sea air, the voyage across, the new sights and associations on the other side, will “bring her round again,” says that observant “avuncular” hopefully.  He is compelled to be at his office in the city much of the time, but comes up this day as a matter of course, and has a brief chat with his graceless nephew at the guard-house.  Billy’s utter lack of spirits sets Uncle Jack to thinking.  The boy says he can “tell him nothing just now,” and Uncle Jack feels well assured that he has a good deal to tell.  He goes in search of Lieutenant Lee, for whom he has conceived a great fancy, but the big lieutenant has gone to the city on business.  In the crowded hall at the hotel he meets Miriam Stanley, and her face gives him another pound of trouble to carry.

“You are going to the ball, though?” he hears a lady say to her, and Miriam shakes her head.

Ball, indeed! ­or last parade, either!  She knows she cannot bear to see the class march to the front, and her brother not there.  She cannot bear the thought of even looking on at the ball, if Philip is to be debarred from attending.  Her thoughts have been very bitter for a few days past.  Her father’s intense but silent distress and regret; Philip’s certain detention after the graduation of his class; his probable court-martial and loss of rank; the knowledge that he had incurred it all to save McKay (and everybody by this time felt that it must be Billy McKay, though no one could prove it), all have conspired to make her very unhappy and very unjust to Mr. Lee.  Philip has told her that Mr. Lee had no alternative in reporting to the commandant his discovery “down the road,” but she had believed herself of sufficient value in that officer’s brown eyes to induce him to at least postpone any mention of that piece of accidental knowledge; and though, in her heart of hearts, she knows she respects him the more because she could not prevail against his sense of duty, she is stung to the quick, and, womanlike, has made him feel it.

It must be in sympathy with her sorrows that, late this afternoon, the heavens open and pour their floods upon the plain.  Hundreds of people are bemoaning the fact that now there can be no graduating parade.  Down in barracks the members of the class are busily packing trunks, trying on civilian garb, and rushing about in much excitement.  In more senses than one Phil Stanley’s room is a centre of gravity.  The commandant at ten o’clock had sent for him and given him final opportunity to state whose place he occupied during the inspection of that now memorable night, and he had respectfully but firmly declined.  There was then no alternative but the withdrawal of his diploma and his detention at the Point to await the action of the Secretary of War upon the charges preferred against him.  “The Class,” of course, knew by this time that McKay was the man whom he had saved, for after one day of torment and indecision that hapless youth had called in half a dozen of his comrades and made a clean breast of it.  It was then his deliberate intention to go to the commandant and beg for Stanley’s release, and to offer himself as the culprit.  But Stanley had thought the problem out and gravely interposed.  It could really do no practical good to him and would only result in disaster to McKay.  No one could have anticipated the luckless chain of circumstances that had led to his own arrest, but now he must face the consequences.  After long consultation the young counsellors had decided on the plan.  “There is only one thing for us to do:  keep the matter quiet.  There is only one thing for Billy to do:  keep a stiff upper lip; graduate with the class, then go to Washington with ’Uncle Jack,’ and bestir their friends in Congress,” ­not just then assembled, but always available.  There was never yet a time when a genuine “pull” from Senate and House did not triumph over the principles of military discipline.

A miserable man is Billy!  For a week he has moped in barracks, forbidden by Stanley and his advisers to admit anything, yet universally suspected of being the cause of all the trouble.  He, too, wishes to cancel his engagements for the graduating ball, and thinks something ought to be done to those young idiots of yearlings who set off the torpedo.  “Nothing could have gone wrong but for them,” says he; but the wise heads of the class promptly snub him into silence.  “You’ve simply got to do as we say in this matter, Billy.  You’ve done enough mischief already.”  And so it results that the message he sends by Uncle Jack is:  “Tell mother and Nan I’ll meet them at the ‘hop.’  My confinements end at eight o’clock, but there’s no use in my going to the hotel and tramping through the mud.”  The truth is, he cannot bear to meet Miriam Stanley, and ’twould be just his luck.

One year ago no happier, bonnier, brighter face could have been seen at the Point than that of Nannie McKay.  To-night, in all the throng of fair women and lovely girls, gathered with their soldier escort in the great mess-hall, there is none so sad.  She tries hard to be chatty and smiling, but is too frank and honest a little soul to have much success.  The dances that Phil Stanley had engaged months and months ago are accredited now to other names, and blissful young fellows in gray and gold come successively to claim them.  But deep down in her heart she remembers the number of each.  It was he who was to have been her escort.  It was he who made out her card and gave it to her only a day or two before that fatal interview.  It was he who was to have had the last waltz ­the very last ­that he would dance in the old cadet gray; and though new names have been substituted for his in other cases, this waltz she meant to keep.  Well knowing that there would be many to beg for it, she has written Willy’s name for “Stanley,” and duly warned him of the fact.  Then, when it comes, she means to escape to the dressing-room, for she is promptly told that her brother is engaged to Miss Waring for that very waltz.  Light as are her feet, she never yet has danced with so heavy a heart.  The rain still pours, driving everybody within doors.  The heat is intense.  The hall is crowded, and it frequently happens that partners cannot find her until near the end of their number on that dainty card.  But every one has something to say about Phil Stanley and the universal regret at his absence.  It is getting to be more than she can bear, ­this prolonged striving to respond with proper appreciation and sympathy, yet not say too much, ­not betray the secret that is now burning, throbbing in her girlish heart.  He does not dream it, but there, hidden beneath the soft lace upon her snowy neck, lies that “knot of ribbon blue” which she so laughingly had given him, at his urging, the last day of her visit the previous year; the knot which he had so loyally treasured and then so sadly returned.  A trifling, senseless thing to make such an ado about, but these hearts are young and ardent, and this romance of his has many a counterpart, the memory of which may bring to war-worn, grizzled heads to-day a blush almost of shame, and would surely bring to many an old and sometimes aching heart a sigh.  Hoping against hope, poor Nannie has thought it just possible that at the last moment the authorities would relent and he be allowed to attend.  If so, ­if so, angry and justly angered though he might be, cut to the heart though he expressed himself, has she not here the means to call him back? ­to bid him come and know how contrite she is?  Hour after hour she glances at the broad archway at the east, yearning to see his dark, handsome face among the new-comers, ­all in vain.  Time and again she encounters Sallie Waring, brilliant, bewitching, in the most ravishing of toilets, and always with half a dozen men about her.  Twice she notices Will among them with a face gloomy and rebellious, and, hardly knowing why, she almost hates her.

At last comes the waltz that was to have been Philip’s, ­the waltz she has saved for his sake though he cannot claim it.  Mr. Pennock, who has danced the previous galop with her, sees the leader raising his baton, bethinks him of his next partner, and leaves her at the open window close to the dressing-room door.  There she can have a breath of fresh air, and, hiding behind the broad backs of several bulky officers and civilians, listen undisturbed to the music she longed to enjoy with him.  Here, to her surprise, Will suddenly joins her.

“I thought you were engaged to Miss Waring for this,” she says.

“I was,” he answers, savagely; “but I’m well out of it.  I resigned in favor of a big ‘cit’ who’s worth only twenty thousand a year, Nan, and she has been engaged to him all this time and never let me know until to-night.”

“Willy!” she gasps.  “Oh!  I’m so glad ­sorry, I mean!  I never did like her.”

“I did, Nan, more’s the pity.  I’m not the first she’s made a fool of;” and he turns away, hiding the chagrin in his young face.  They are practically alone in this sheltered nook.  Crowds are around them, but looking the other way.  The rain is dripping from the trees without and pattering on the stone flags.  McKay leans out into the night, and the sister’s loving heart yearns over him in his trouble.

“Willy,” she says, laying the little white-gloved hand on his arm, “it’s hard to bear, but she isn’t worthy any man’s love.  Twice I’ve heard in the last two days that she makes a boast of it that ’twas to see her that some one risked his commission and so ­kept Mr. Stanley from being here to-night.  Willy, do you know who it was? Don’t you think he ought to have come forward like a gentleman, days ago, and told the truth? Will! What is it? Don’t look so!  Speak to me, Willy, ­your little Nan.  Was there ever a time, dear, when my whole heart wasn’t open to you in love and sympathy?”

And now, just at this minute, the music begins again.  Soft, sweet, yet with such a strain of pathos and of sadness running through every chord; it is the loveliest of all the waltzes played in his “First Class Camp,” ­the one of all others he most loved to hear.  Her heart almost bursts now to think of him in his lonely room, beyond hearing of the melody that is so dear to him, that is now so passionately dear to her, ­“Love’s Sigh.”  Doubtless, Philip had asked the leader days ago to play it here and at no other time.  It is more than enough to start the tears long welling in her eyes.  For an instant it turns her from thought of Willy’s own heartache.

“Will!” she whispers, desperately.  “This was to have been Philip Stanley’s waltz ­and I want you to take ­something to him for me.”

He turns back to her again, his hands clinched, his teeth set, still thinking only of his own bitter humiliation, ­of how that girl has fooled and jilted him, ­of how for her sake he had brought all this trouble on his stanchest friend.

“Phil Stanley!” he exclaims.  “By heaven! it makes me nearly mad to think of it! ­and all for her sake, ­all through me.  Oh, Nan!  Nan!  I must tell you!  It was for me, ­to save me that ­”

“Willy!” and there is almost horror in her wide blue eyes. “Willy!” she gasps ­“oh, don’t ­don’t tell me that!  Oh, it isn’t true?  Not you ­not you, Willy.  Not my brother!  Oh, quick!  Tell me.”

Startled, alarmed, he seizes her hand.

“Little sister!  What ­what has happened ­what is ­”

But there is no time for more words.  The week of misery; the piteous strain of the long evening; the sweet, sad, wailing melody, ­his favorite waltz; the sudden, stunning revelation that it was for Willy’s sake that he ­her hero ­was now to suffer, he whose heart she had trampled on and crushed!  It is all more than mortal girl can bear.  With the beautiful strains moaning, whirling, ringing, surging through her brain, she is borne dizzily away into darkness and oblivion.

There follows a week in which sadder faces yet are seen about the old hotel.  The routine of the Academy goes on undisturbed.  The graduating class has taken its farewell of the gray walls and gone upon its way.  New faces, new voices are those in the line of officers at parade.  The corps has pitched its white tents under the trees beyond the grassy parapet of Fort Clinton, and, with the graduates and furlough-men gone, its ranks look pitifully thinned.  The throng of visitors has vanished.  The halls and piazzas at Craney’s are well-nigh deserted, but among the few who linger there is not one who has not loving inquiry for the young life that for a brief while has fluttered so near the grave.  “Brain fever,” said the doctors to Uncle Jack, and a new anxiety was lined in his kindly face as he and Will McKay sped on their mission to the Capitol.  They had to go, though little Nan lay sore stricken at the Point.

But youth and elasticity triumph.  The danger is passed.  She lies now, very white and still, listening to the sweet strains of the band trooping down the line this soft June evening.  Her mother, worn with watching, is resting on the lounge.  It is Miriam Stanley who hovers at the bedside.  Presently the bugles peal the retreat; the sunset gun booms across the plain; the ringing voice of the young adjutant comes floating on the southerly breeze, and, as she listens, Nannie follows every detail of the well-known ceremony, wondering how it could go on day after day with no Mr. Pennock to read the orders; with no “big Burton” to thunder his commands to the first company; with no Philip Stanley to march the colors to their place on the line.  “Where is he?” is the question in the sweet blue eyes that so wistfully seek his sister’s face; but she answers not.  One by one the first sergeants made their reports; and now ­that ringing voice again, reading the orders of the day.  How clear it sounds!  How hushed and still the listening Point!

“Head-quarters of the Army,” she hears.  “Washington, June 15, 187-.  Special orders, Number .

“First. Upon his own application, First Lieutenant George Romney Lee, ­th Cavalry, is hereby relieved from duty at the U. S. Military Academy, and will join his troop now in the field against hostile Indians.

“Second. Upon the recommendation of the Superintendent U. S. Military Academy, the charges preferred against Cadet Captain Philip S. Stanley are withdrawn.  Cadet Stanley will be considered as graduated with his class on the 12th instant, will be released from arrest, and authorized to avail himself of the leave of absence granted his class.”

Nannie starts from her pillow, clasping in her thin white fingers the soft hand that would have restrained her.

“Miriam!” she cries.  “Then ­will he go?”

The dark, proud face bends down to her; clasping arms encircle the little white form, and Miriam Stanley’s very heart wails forth in answer, ­

“Oh, Nannie!  He is almost there by this time, ­both of them.  They left to join the regiment three days ago; their orders came by telegraph.”

Another week, and Uncle Jack is again with them.  The doctors agree that the ocean voyage is now not only advisable, but necessary.  They are to move their little patient to the city and board their steamer in a day or two.  Will has come to them, full of disgust that he has been assigned to the artillery, and filling his mother’s heart with dismay because he is begging for a transfer to the cavalry, to the ­th Regiment, ­of all others, ­now plunged in the whirl of an Indian war.  Every day the papers come freighted with rumors of fiercer fighting; but little that is reliable can be heard from “Sabre Stanley” and his column.  They are far beyond telegraphic communication, hemmed in by “hostiles” on every side.

Uncle Jack is an early riser.  Going down for his paper before breakfast, he is met at the foot of the stairs by a friend who points to the head-lines of the Herald, with the simple remark, “Isn’t this hard?”

It is brief enough, God knows.

“A courier just in from Colonel Stanley’s camp brings the startling news that Lieutenant Philip Stanley, ­th Cavalry, with two scouts and a small escort, who left here Sunday, hoping to push through to the Spirit Wolf, were ambushed by the Indians in Black Canyon.  Their bodies, scalped and mutilated, were found Wednesday night.”

Where, then, was Romney Lee?

CHAPTER VII.

BLACK CANYON.

The red sun is going down behind the line of distant buttes, throwing long shadows out across the grassy upland.  Every crest and billow of the prairie is bathed in crimson and gold, while the “breaks” and ravines trending southward grow black and forbidding in their contrasted gloom.  Far over to the southeast, in dazzling radiance, two lofty peaks, still snow-clad, gleam against the summer sky, and at their feet dark waves of forest-covered foot-hills drink in the last rays of the waning sunshine as though hoarding its treasured warmth against the chill of coming night.  Already the evening air, rare and exhilarating at this great altitude, loses the sun-god’s touch and strikes upon the cheek keen as the ether of the limitless heavens.  A while ago, only in the distant valley winding to the south could foliage be seen.  Now, all in those depths is merged in sombre shade, and not a leaf or tree breaks for miles the grand monotony.  Close at hand a host of tiny mounds, each tipped with reddish gold, and some few further ornamented by miniature sentry, alert and keen-eyed, tell of a prairie township already laid out and thickly populated; and at this moment every sentry is chipping his pert, querulous challenge until the disturbers of the peace are close upon him, then diving headlong into the bowels of the earth.

A dun cloud of dust rolls skyward along a well-worn cavalry trail, and is whirled into space by the hoofs of sixty panting chargers trotting steadily south.  Sixty sunburned, dust-covered troopers ride grimly on, following the lead of a tall soldier whose kind brown eyes peer anxiously from under his scouting-hat.  It is just as they pass the village of the prairie dogs that he points to the low valley down to the front and questions the “plainsman” who lopes along by his side, ­

“That Black Canyon down yonder?”

“That’s it, lieutenant:  I didn’t think you could make it to-night.”

“We had to,” is the simple reply as again the spur touches the jaded flank and evokes only a groan in response.

“How far from here to ­the Springs?” he presently asks again.

“Box Elder? ­where they found the bodies? ­’bout five mile, sir.”

“Where away was that signal smoke we saw at the divide?”

“Must have been from those bluffs ­east of the Springs, sir.”

Lieutenant Lee whips out his watch and peers at the dial through the twilight.  The cloud deepens on his haggard, handsome face.  Eight o’clock, and they have been in saddle almost incessantly since yesterday afternoon, weighed down with the tidings of the fell disaster that has robbed them of their comrades, and straining every nerve to reach the scene.

Only five days before, as he stepped from the railway car at the supply station, a wagon-train had come in from the front escorted by Mr. Lee’s own troop; his captain with it, wounded.  Just as soon as it could reload with rations and ammunition the train was to start on its eight days’ journey to the Spirit Wolf, where Colonel Stanley and the ­th were bivouacked and scouring the neighboring mountains.  Already a battalion of infantry was at the station, another was on its way, and supplies were being hurried forward.  Captain Gregg brought the first reliable news.  The Indians had apparently withdrawn from the road.  The wagon-train had come through unmolested, and Colonel Stanley was expecting to push forward into their fastnesses farther south the moment he could obtain authority from head-quarters.  With these necessary orders two couriers had started just twelve hours before.  The captain was rejoiced to see his favorite lieutenant and to welcome Philip Stanley to the regiment.  “Everybody seemed to feel that you too would be coming right along,” he said; “but, Phil, my boy, I’m afraid you’re too late for the fun.  You cannot catch the command before it starts from Spirit Wolf.”

And yet this was just what Phil had tried to do.  Lee knew nothing of his plan until everything had been arranged between the young officer and the major commanding the temporary camp at the station.  Then it was too late to protest.  While it was Mr. Lee’s duty to remain and escort the train, Philip Stanley, with two scouts and half a dozen troopers, had pushed out to overtake the regiment two hundred miles away.  Forty-eight hours later, as the wagon-train with its guard was slowly crawling southward, it was met by a courier with ghastly face.  He was one of three who had started from the ruined agency together.  They met no Indians, but at Box Elder Springs had come upon the bodies of a little party of soldiers stripped, scalped, gashed, and mutilated, ­nine in all.  There could be little doubt that they were those of poor Philip and his new-found comrades.  The courier had recognized two of the bodies as those of Forbes and Whiting, ­the scouts who had gone with the party; the others he did not know at all.

Parking his train then and there, sending back to the railway for an infantry company to hasten forward and take charge of it, Mr. Lee never hesitated as to his own course.  He and his troop pushed on at once.  And now, worn, weary, but determined, the little command is just in sight of the deep ravine known to frontiersmen for years as Black Canyon.  It was through here that Stanley and his battalion had marched a fortnight since.  It was along this very trail that Phil and his party, pressing eagerly on to join the regiment, rode down into its dark depths and were ambushed at the Springs.  From all indications, said the courier, they must have unsaddled for a brief rest, probably just at nightfall; but the Indians had left little to aid them in forming an opinion.  Utterly unnerved by the sight, his two associates had turned back to rejoin Stanley’s column, while he, the third, had decided to make for the railway.  Unless those men, too, had been cut off, the regiment by this time knew of the tragic fate of some of their comrades, but the colonel was mercifully spared all dread that one of the victims was his only son.

Nine were in the party when they started.  Nine bodies were lying there when the couriers reached the Springs, and now nine are lying here to-night when, just after moonrise, Romney Lee dismounts and bends sadly over them, one after another.  The prairie wolves have been here first, adding mutilation to the butchery of their human prototypes.  There is little chance, in this pallid light and with these poor remnants, to make identification a possibility.  All vestiges of uniform, arms, and equipment have been carried away, and such underclothing as remains has been torn to shreds by the herd of snarling, snapping brutes which is driven off only by the rush of the foremost troopers, and is now dispersed all over the canyon and far up the heights beyond the outposts, yelping indignant protest.

There can be no doubt as to the number slain.  All the nine are here, and Mr. Lee solemnly pencils the despatch that is to go back to the railway so soon as a messenger and his horse can get a few hours’ needed rest.  Before daybreak the man is away, meeting on his lonely ride other comrades hurrying to the front, to whom he briefly gives confirmation of the first report.  Before the setting of the second sun he has reached his journey’s end, and the telegraph is flashing the mournful details to the distant East, and so, when the “Servia” slowly glides from her moorings and turns her prow towards the sparkling sea, Nannie McKay is sobbing her heart out alone in her little white state-room, crushing with her kisses, bathing with her tears, the love-knot she had given her soldier boy less than a year before.

Another night comes around.  Tiny fires are glowing down in the dark depths of Black Canyon, showing red through the frosty gleam of the moonlight.  Under the silvery rays nine new-made graves are ranked along the turf, guarded by troopers whose steeds are browsing close at hand.  Silence and sadness reign in the little bivouac where Lee and his comrades await the coming of the train they had left three days before.  It will be here on the morrow, early, and then they must push ahead and bear their heavy tidings to the regiment.  He has written one sorrowing letter ­and what a letter to have to write to the woman he loves! ­to tell Miriam that he has been unable to identify any one of the bodies as that of her gallant young brother, yet is compelled to believe him to lie there, one of the stricken nine.  And now he must face the father with this bitter news!  Romney Lee’s sore heart fails him at the prospect, and he cannot sleep.  Good heaven! Can it be that three weeks only have passed away since the night of that lovely yet ill-fated carriage-ride down through Highland Falls, down beyond picturesque Hawkshurst?

Out on the bluffs, though he cannot see them, and up and down the canyon, vigilant sentries guard this solemn bivouac.  No sign of Indian has been seen except the hoof-prints of a score of ponies and the bloody relics of their direful visit.  No repetition of the signal-smokes has greeted their watchful eyes.  It looks as though this outlying band of warriors had noted his coming, had sent up their warning to others of their tribe, and then scattered for the mountains at the south.  All the same, as he rode the bluff lines at nightfall, Mr. Lee had charged the sentries to be alert with eye and ear, and to allow none to approach unchallenged.

The weary night wears on.  The young moon has ridden down in the west and sunk behind that distant bluff line.  All is silent as the graves around which his men are slumbering, and at last, worn with sorrow and vigil, Lee rolls himself in his blanket and, still booted and spurred, stretches his feet towards the little watch-fire, and pillows his head upon the saddle.  Down the stream the horses are already beginning to tug at their lariats and struggle to their feet, that they may crop the dew-moistened bunch grass.  Far out upon the chill night air the yelping challenge of the coyotes is heard, but the sentries give no sign.  Despite grief and care, Nature asserts her sway and is fast lulling Lee to sleep, when, away up on the heights to the northwest, there leaps out a sudden lurid flash and, a second after, the loud ring of the cavalry carbine comes echoing down the canyon.  Lee springs to his feet and seizes his rifle.  The first shot is quickly followed by a second; the men are tumbling up from their blankets and, with the instinct of old campaigners, thrusting cartridges into the opened chambers.

“Keep your men together here, sergeant,” is the brief order, and in a moment more Lee is spurring upward along an old game trail.  Just under the crest he overtakes a sergeant hurrying northward.

“What is it?  Who fired?” he asks.

“Morris fired, sir:  I don’t know why.  He is the farthest post up the bluffs.”

Together they reach a young trooper, crouching in the pallid dawn behind a jagged parapet of rock, and eagerly demanded the cause of the alarm.  The sentry is quivering with excitement.

“An Indian, sir!  Not a hundred yards out there!  I seen him plain enough to swear to it.  He rose up from behind that point yonder and started out over the prairie, and I up and fired.”

“Did you challenge?”

“No, sir,” answers the young soldier, simply.  “He was going away.  He couldn’t understand me if I had, ­leastwise I couldn’t ’a understood him.  He ran like a deer the moment I fired, and was out of sight almost before I could send another shot.”

Lee and the sergeant push out along the crest, their arms at “ready,” their keen eyes searching every dip in the surface.  Close to the edge of the canyon, perhaps a hundred yards away, they come upon a little ledge, behind which, under the bluff, it is possible for an Indian to steal unnoticed towards their sentries and to peer into the depths below.  Some one has been here within a few minutes, watching, stretched prone upon the turf, for Lee finds it dry and almost warm, while all around the bunch grass is heavy with dew.  Little by little as the light grows warmer in the east and aids them in their search, they can almost trace the outline of a recumbent human form.  Presently the west wind begins to blow with greater strength, and they note the mass of clouds, gray and frowning, that is banked against the sky.  Out on the prairie not a moving object can be seen, though the eye can reach a good rifle-shot away.  Down in the darkness of the canyon the watch-fires still smoulder and the men still wait.  There comes no further order from the heights.  Lee, with the sergeant, is now bending over faint footprints just discernible in the pallid light.

Suddenly up he starts and gazes eagerly out to the west.  The sergeant, too, at the same instant, leaps towards his commander.  Distant, but distinct, two quick shots have been fired far over among those tumbling buttes and ridges lying there against the horizon.  Before either man could speak or question, there comes another, then another, then two or three in quick succession, the sound of firing thick and fast.

“It’s a fight, sir, sure!” cries the sergeant, eagerly.

“To horse, then, ­quick!” is the answer, as the two soldiers bound back to the trail.

“Saddle up, men!” rings the order, shouted down the rocky flanks of the ravine.  There is instant response in the neigh of excited horses, the clatter of iron-shod hoofs.  Through the dim light the men go rushing, saddles and bridles in hand, each to where he has driven his own picket pin.  Promptly the steeds are girthed and bitted.  Promptly the men come running back to the bivouac, seizing and slinging carbines, then leading into line.  A brief word of command, another of caution, and then the whole troop is mounted and, following its leader, rides ghost-like up a winding ravine that enters the canyon from the west and goes spurring to the high plateau beyond.  Once there the eager horses have ample room; the springing turf invites their speed.  “Front into line” they sweep at rapid gallop, and then, with Lee well out before them, with carbines advanced, with hearts beating high, with keen eyes flashing, and every ear strained for sound of the fray, away they bound.  There’s a fight ahead!  Some one needs their aid, and there’s not a man in all old “B” troop who does not mean to avenge those new-made graves.  Up a little slope they ride, all eyes fixed on Lee.  They see him reach the ridge, sweep gallantly over, then, with ringing cheer, turn in saddle, wave his revolver high in air, clap spur to his horse’s flank and go darting down the other side.

“Come on, lads!”

Ay, on it is!  One wild race for the crest, one headland charge down the slope beyond, and they are rolling over a band of yelling, scurrying, savage horsemen, whirling them away over the opposite ridge, driving them helter-skelter over the westward prairie, until all who escape the shock of the onset or the swift bullet in the raging chase finally vanish from their sight; and then, obedient to the ringing “recall” of the trumpet, slowly they return, gathering again in the little ravine; and there, wondering, rejoicing, jubilant, they cluster at the entrance of a deep cleft in the rocks, where, bleeding from a bullet-wound in the arm, but with a world of thankfulness and joy in his handsome face, their leader stands, clasping Philip Stanley, pallid, faint, well-nigh starved, but ­God be praised! ­safe and unscathed.

CHAPTER VIII.

CAPTURED.

How the tidings of that timely rescue thrill through every heart at old Fort Warrener!  There are gathered the wives and children of the regiment.  There is the colonel’s home, silent and darkened for that one long week, then ringing with joy and congratulation, with gladness and thanksgiving.  Miriam again is there, suddenly lifted from the depths of sorrow to a wealth of bliss she had no words to express.  Day and night the little army coterie flocked about her to hear again and again the story of Philip’s peril and his final rescue, and then to exclaim over Romney Lee’s gallantry and devotion.  It was all so bewildering.  For a week they had mourned their colonel’s only son as dead and buried.  The wondrous tale of his discovery sounded simply fabulous, and yet was simply true.  Hurrying forward from the railway, the little party had been joined by two young frontiersmen eager to obtain employment with the scouts of Stanley’s column.  Halting just at sunset for brief rest at Box Elder Springs, the lieutenant with Sergeant Harris had climbed the bluffs to search for Indian signal fires.  It was nearly dark when on their return they were amazed to hear the sound of fire-arms in the canyon, and were themselves suddenly attacked and completely cut off from their comrades.  Stanley’s horse was shot; but Sergeant Harris, though himself wounded, helped his young officer to mount behind him, and galloped back into the darkness, where they evaded their pursuers by turning loose their horse and groping in among the rocks.  Here they hid all night and all next day in the deep cleft where Lee had found them, listening to the shouts and signals of a swarm of savage foes.  At last the sounds seemed to die away, the Indians to disappear, and then hunger, thirst, and the feverish delirium of the sergeant, who was tortured for want of water, drove Stanley forth in hopes of reaching the canyon.  Fired at, as he supposed, by Indians, he was speedily back in his lair again, but was there almost as speedily tracked and besieged.  For a while he was able to keep the foe at bay, but Lee had come just in the nick of time; only two cartridges were left, and poor Harris was nearly gone.

A few weeks later, while the ­th is still on duty rounding up the Indians in the mountains, the wounded are brought home to Warrener.  There are not many, for only the first detachment of two small troops had had any serious engagement; but the surgeons say that Mr. Lee’s arm is so badly crippled that he can do no field work for several months, and he had best go in to the railway.  And now he is at Warrener; and here, one lovely moonlit summer’s evening, he is leaning on the gate in front of the colonel’s quarters, utterly regardless of certain injunctions as to avoiding exposure to the night air.  Good Mrs. Wilton, the major’s wife, ­who, army fashion, is helping Miriam keep house in her father’s absence, ­has gone in before “to light up,” she says, though it is too late for callers; and they have been spending a long evening at Captain Gregg’s, “down the row.”  It is Miriam who keeps the tall lieutenant at the gate.  She has said good-night, yet lingers.  He has been there several days, his arm still in its sling, and not once has she had a word with him alone till now.  Some one has told her that he has asked for leave of absence to go East and settle some business affairs he had to leave abruptly when hurrying to take part in the campaign.  If this be true is it not time to be making her peace?

The moonlight throws a brilliant sheen on all surrounding objects, yet she stands in the shade, bowered in a little archway of vines that overhangs the gate.  He has been strangely silent during the brief walk homeward, and now, so far from following into the shadows as she half hoped he might do, he stands without, the flood of moonlight falling full upon his stalwart figure.  Two months ago he would not thus have held aloof, yet now he is half extending his hand as though in adieu.  She cannot fathom this strange silence on the part of him who so long has been devoted as a lover.  She knows well it cannot be because of her injustice to him at the Point that he is unrelenting now.  Her eyes have told him how earnestly she repents:  and does he not always read her eyes?  Only in faltering words, in the presence of others all too interested, has she been able to speak her thanks for Philip’s rescue.  She cannot see now that what he fears from her change of mood is that gratitude for her brother’s safety, not a woman’s response to the passionate love in his deep heart, is the impulse of this sweet, half-shy, half-entreating manner.  He cannot sue for love from a girl weighted with a sense of obligation.  He knows that lingering here is dangerous, yet he cannot go.  When friends are silent ’tis time for chats to close:  but there is a silence that at such a time as this only bids a man to speak, and speak boldly.  Yet Lee is dumb.

Once ­over a year ago ­he had come to the colonel’s quarters to seek permission to visit the neighboring town on some sudden errand.  She had met him at the door with the tidings that her father had been feeling far from well during the morning, and was now taking a nap.

“Won’t I do for commanding officer this time?” she had laughingly inquired.

“I would ask no better fate ­for all time,” was his prompt reply, and he spoke too soon.  Though neither ever forgot the circumstance, she would never again permit allusion to it.  But to-night it is uppermost in her mind.  She must know if it be true that he is going.

“Tell me,” she suddenly asks, “have you applied for leave of absence?”

“Yes,” he answers, simply.

“And you are going ­soon?”

“I am going to-morrow,” is the utterly unlooked-for reply.

“To-morrow!  Why ­Mr. Lee!”

There can be no mistaking the shock it gives her, and still he stands and makes no sign.  It is cruel of him!  What has she said or done to deserve penance like this?  He is still holding out his hand as though in adieu, and she lays hers, fluttering, in the broad palm.

“I ­I thought all applications had to be made to ­your commanding officer,” she says at last, falteringly, yet archly.

“Major Wilton forwarded mine on Monday.  I asked him to say nothing about it.  The answer came by wire to-day.”

“Major Wilton is post commander; but ­did you not ­a year ?”

“Did I not?” he speaks in eager joy.  “Do you mean you have not forgotten that?  Do you mean that now ­for all time ­my first allegiance shall be to you, Miriam?”

No answer for a minute; but her hand is still firmly clasped in his.  At last, ­

“Don’t you think you ought to have asked me, before applying for leave to go?”

Mr. Lee is suddenly swallowed up in the gloom of that shaded bower under the trellis-work, though a radiance as of mid-day is shining through his heart.

But soon he has to go.  Mrs. Wilton is on the veranda, urging them to come in out of the chill night air.  Those papers on his desk must be completed and filed this very night.  He told her this.

“To-morrow, early, I will be here,” he murmurs.  “And now, good-night, my own.”

But she does not seek to draw her hand away.  Slowly he moves back into the bright moonbeams and she follows part way.  One quick glance she gives as her hand is released and he raises his forage cap.  It is such a disadvantage to have but one arm at such a time!  She sees that Mrs. Wilton is at the other end of the veranda.

“Good-night,” she whispers.  “I ­know you must go.”

“I must.  There is so much to be done.”

“I ­thought” ­another quick glance at the piazza ­“that a soldier, on leaving, should ­salute his commanding officer?”

And Romney Lee is again in shadow and ­in sunshine.

Late that autumn, in one of his infrequent letters to his devoted mother, Mr. McKay finds time to allude to the news of Lieutenant Lee’s approaching marriage to Miss Stanley.

“Phil is, of course, immensely pleased,” he writes, “and from all I hear I suppose Mr. Lee is a very different fellow from what we thought six months ago.  Pennock says I always had a wrong idea of him; but Pennock thinks all my ideas about the officers appointed over me are absurd.  He likes old Pelican, our battery commander, who is just the crankiest, crabbedest, sore-headedest captain in all the artillery, and that is saying a good deal.  I wish I’d got into the cavalry at the start; but there’s no use in trying now.  The ­th is the only regiment I wanted; but they have to go to reveille and stables before breakfast, which wouldn’t suit me at all.

“Hope Nan’s better.  A winter in the Riviera will set her up again.  Stanley asks after her when he writes, but he has rather dropped me of late.  I suppose it’s because I was too busy to answer, though he ought to know that in New York harbor a fellow has no time for scribbling, whereas, out on the plains they have nothing else to do.  He sent me his picture a while ago, and I tell you he has improved wonderfully.  Such a swell moustache!  I meant to have sent it over for you and Nan to see, but I’ve mislaid it somewhere.”

Poor little Nan!  She would give many of her treasures for one peep at the coveted picture that Will holds so lightly.  There had been temporary improvement in her health at the time Uncle Jack came with the joyous tidings that Stanley was safe after all; but even the Riviera fails to restore her wonted spirits.  She droops visibly during the long winter.  “She grows so much older away from Willy,” says the fond mamma, to whom proximity to that vivacious youth is the acme of earthly bliss.  Uncle Jack grins and says nothing.  It is dawning upon him that something is needed besides the air and sunshine of the Riviera to bring back the dancing light in those sweet blue eyes and joy to the wistful little face.

“The time to see the Yosemite and ‘the glorious climate of California’ is April, not October,” he suddenly declares, one balmy morning by the Mediterranean; “and the sooner we get back to Yankeedom the better ’twill suit me.”

And so it happens that, early in the month of meteorological smiles and tears, the trio are speeding westward far across the rolling prairies:  Mrs. McKay deeply scandalized at the heartless conduct of the War Department in refusing Willy a two-months’ leave to go with them; Uncle Jack quizzically disposed to look upon that calamity as a not utterly irretrievable ill; and Nan, fluttering with hope, fear, joy, and dread, all intermingled; for is not he stationed at Cheyenne?  All these long months has she cherished that little knot of senseless ribbon.  If she had sent it to him within the week of his graduation, perhaps it would not have seemed amiss; but after that, after all he had been through in the campaign, ­the long months of silence, ­he might have changed, and, for very shame, she cannot bring herself to give a signal he would perhaps no longer wish to obey.  Every hour her excitement and nervousness increase; but when the conductor of the Pullman comes to say that Cheyenne is really in sight, and the long whistle tells that they are nearing the dinner station of those days, Nan simply loses herself entirely.  There will be half an hour, and Philip actually there to see, to hear, to answer.  She hardly knows whether she is of this mortal earth when Uncle Jack comes bustling in with the gray-haired colonel, when she feels Miriam’s kiss upon her cheek, when Mr. Lee, handsomer and kindlier than ever, bends down to take her hand; but she looks beyond them all for the face she longs for, ­and it is not there.  The car seems whirling around when, from over her shoulder, she hears, in the old, well-remembered tones, a voice that redoubles the throb of her little heart.

“Miss Nannie!”

And there ­bending over her, his face aglow, and looking marvellously well in his cavalry uniform ­is Philip Stanley.  She knows not what she says.  She has prepared something proper and conventional, but it has all fled.  She looks one instant up into his shining eyes, and there is no need to speak at all.  Every one else is so busy that no one sees, no one knows, that he is firmly clinging to her hand, and that she shamelessly and passively submits.

A little later ­just as the train is about to start ­they are standing at the rear door of the sleeper.  The band of the ­th is playing some distance up the platform, ­a thoughtful device of Mr. Lee’s to draw the crowd that way, ­and they are actually alone.  An exquisite happiness is in her eyes as she peers up into the love-light in his strong, steadfast face. Something must have been said; for he draws her close to his side and bends over her as though all the world were wrapped up in this dainty little morsel of womanhood.  Suddenly the great train begins slowly to move.  Part they must now, though it be only for a time.  He folds her quickly, unresisting, to his breast.  The sweet blue eyes begin to fill.

“My darling, ­my little Nannie,” he whispers, as his lips kiss away the gathering tears.  “There is just an instant.  What is it you tell me you have kept for me?”

“This,” she answers, shyly placing in his hand a little packet wrapped in tissue-paper.  “Don’t look at it yet!  Wait! ­But ­I wanted to send it ­the very next day, Philip.”

Slowly he turns her blushing face until he can look into her eyes.  The glory in his proud, joyous gaze is a delight to see.  “My own little girl,” he whispers, as his lips meet hers.  “I know it is my love-knot.”