"Who—am I?" he said, angrily. "I'm—Silent—Murphy."

An expression of bewilderment swept across the lieutenant's face. "Silent Murphy! Do you claim to be Custer's scout?"

The fellow nodded. "Heard—of me—maybe?"

Brant stood staring at him, his mind occupied with vague garrison rumors connected with this odd personality. The name had long been a familiar one, and he had often had the man pictured out before him, just such a wizened face and hunched-up figure, half crazed, at times malicious, yet keen and absolutely devoid of fear; acknowledged as the best scout in all the Indian country, a daring rider, an incomparable trailer, tireless, patient, and as tricky and treacherous as the wily savages he was employed to spy upon. There could remain no reasonable doubt of his identity, but what was he doing there? What purpose underlay his insinuations against that young girl? If this was indeed Silent Murphy, he assuredly had some object in being there, and however hastily he may have spoken, it was not altogether probable that he deliberately lied. All this flashed across his mind in that single instant of hesitation.

"Yes, I've heard of you,"—and his crisp tone instinctively became that of terse military command,—"although we have never met, for I have been upon detached service ever since my assignment to the regiment. I have a troop in camp below," he pointed down the stream, "and am in command here."

The scout nodded carelessly.

"Why did you not come down there, and report your presence in this neighborhood to me?"

Murphy grinned unpleasantly. "Rather be—alone—no report—been over—Black Range—telegraphed—wait orders."

"Do you mean you are in direct communication with headquarters, with Custer?"

The man answered, with a wide sweep of his long arm toward the northwest. "Goin' to—be hell—out there—damn soon."

"How? Are things developing into a truly serious affair—a real campaign?"

"Every buck—in the—Sioux nation—is makin'—fer the—bad lands," and he laughed noiselessly, his nervous fingers gesticulating. "I—guess that—means—business."

Brant hesitated. Should he attempt to learn more about the young girl? Instinctively he appreciated the futility of endeavoring to extract information from Murphy, and he experienced a degree of shame at thus seeking to penetrate her secret. Besides, it was none of his affair, and if ever it should chance to become so, surely there were more respectable means by which he could obtain information. He glanced about, seeking some way of recrossing the stream.

"If you require any new equipment," he said tersely, "we can probably supply you at the camp. How do you manage to get across here?"

Murphy, walking stiffly, led the way down the steep slope, and silently pointed out a log bridging the narrow stream. He stood watching while the officer picked his steps across, but made no responsive motion when the other waved his hand from the opposite shore, his sallow face looking grim and unpleasant.

"Damn—the luck!" he grumbled, shambling back up the bank. "It don't—look—right. Three of 'em—all here—at once—in this—cussed hole. Seems if—this yere world—ought ter be—big 'nough—ter keep 'em apart;—but hell—it ain't. Might make—some trouble—if them—people—ever git—their heads—tergether talkin'. Hell of a note—if the boy—falls in love with—her. Likely to do it—too. Curse such—fool luck. Maybe I—better talk—it over again—with Red—he's in it—damn near—as deep as—I am." And he sank down again in his old position before the tent, continuing to mutter, his chin sunk into his chest, his whole appearance that of deep dejection, perhaps of dread.

The young officer marched down the road, his heedless feet kicking up the red dust in clouds, his mind busied with the peculiar happenings of the morning, and that prospect for early active service hinted at in the brief utterances of the old scout. Brant was a thorough soldier, born into the service and deeply enamored of its dangers; yet beyond this he remained a man, a young man, swayed by those emotions which when at full tide sweep aside all else appertaining to life.

Just now the vision of that tantalizing girl continued to haunt his memory, and would not down even to the glorious hope of a coming campaign. The mystery surrounding her, her reticence, the muttered insinuation dropping from the unguarded lips of Murphy, merely served to render her the more attractive, while her own naive witchery of manner, and her seemingly unconscious coquetry, had wound about him a magic spell, the full power of which as yet remained but dimly appreciated. His mind lingered longingly upon the marvel of the dark eyes, while the cheery sound of that last rippling outburst of laughter reechoed in his ears like music.

His had been a lonely life since leaving West Point and joining his regiment—a life passed largely among rough men and upon the desolate plains. For months at a time he had known nothing of refinement, nor enjoyed social intercourse with the opposite sex; life had thus grown as barren and bleak as those desert wastes across which he rode at the command of his superiors. For years the routine of his military duties had held him prisoner, crushing out the dreams of youth. Yet, beneath his mask of impassibility, the heart continued to beat with fierce desire, biding the time when it should enjoy its own sweet way. Perhaps that hour had already dawned; certainly something new, something inspiring, had now come to awaken an interest unfelt before, and leave him idly dreaming of shadowed eyes and flushed, rounded cheeks.

He was in this mood when he overtook the Rev. Howard Wynkoop and marked the thoughtful look upon his pale face.

"I called at your camp," explained Wynkoop, after the first words of greeting had been exchanged, "as soon as I learned you were here in command, but only to discover your absence. The sergeant, however, was very courteous, and assured me there would be no difficulty in arranging a religious service for the men, unless sudden orders should arrive. No doubt I may rely on your cooeperation."

"Most certainly," was the cordial response, "and I shall also permit those desiring to attend your regular Sunday services so long as we are stationed here. How is your work prospering?"

"There is much to encourage me, but spiritual progress is slow, and there are times when my faith falters and I feel unworthy of the service in which I am engaged. Doubtless this is true of all labor, yet the minister is particularly susceptible to these influences surrounding him."

"A mining camp is so intensely material seven days of the week that it must present a difficult field for the awakening of any religious sentiment," confessed Brant sympathetically, feeling not a little interested in the clear-cut, intellectual countenance of the other. "I have often wondered how you consented to bury your talents in such a place."

The other smiled, but with a trace of sadness in his eyes. "I firmly believe that every minister should devote a portion of his life to the doing of such a work as this. It is both a religious and a patriotic duty, and there is a rare joy connected with it."

"Yet it was surely not joy I saw pictured within your face when we met; you were certainly troubled over some problem."

Wynkoop glanced up quickly, a slight flush rising in his pale cheeks. "Perplexing questions which must be decided off-hand are constantly arising. I have no one near to whom I can turn for advice in unusual situations, and just now I scarcely know what action to take regarding certain applications for church membership."

Brant laughed. "I hardly consider myself a competent adviser in matters of church polity," he admitted, "yet I have always been informed that all so desiring are to be made welcome in religious fellowship."

"Theoretically, yes." And the minister stopped still in the road, facing his companion. "But this special case presents certain peculiarities. The applicants, as I learn from others, are not leading lives above reproach. So far as I know, they have never even attended church service until last Sunday, and I have some reason to suspect an ulterior motive. I am anxious to put nothing in the way of any honestly seeking soul, yet I confess that in these cases I hesitate."

"But your elders? Do not they share the responsibility of passing upon such applications?"

The flush on Mr. Wynkoop's cheeks deepened, and his eyes fell. "Ordinarily, yes; but in this case I fear they may prove unduly harsh. I—I feel—that these applications came through the special intercession of a certain young lady, and I am anxious not to hurt her feelings in any way, or to discourage her enthusiasm."

"Oh, I see! Would you mind telling me the names of the two gentlemen?"

"Mr. John Moffat and Mr. William McNeil. Unfortunately, I know neither personally."

"And the young lady?"

"A Miss Phoebe Spencer; she has but lately arrived from the East to take charge of our new school—a most interesting and charming young woman, and she is proving of great assistance to me in church work."

The lieutenant cleared his throat, and emitted a sigh of suddenly awakened memory. "I fear I can offer you no advice, for if, as I begin to suspect,—though she sought most bravely to avoid the issue and despatch me upon a false trail,—she prove to be that same fascinating young person I met this morning, my entire sympathies are with the gentlemen concerned. I might even be strongly tempted to do likewise at her solicitation."

"You? Why, you arrived only this morning, and do you mean to say you have met already?"

"I at least suspect as much, for there can scarcely exist two in this town who will fill the description. My memory holds the vision of a fair young face, vivacious, ever changing in its expression, yet constantly both piquant and innocent; a perfect wealth of hair, a pair of serious eyes hiding mysteries within their depths, and lips which seem made to kiss. Tell me, is not this a fairly drawn portrait of your Miss Spencer?"

The minister gripped his hands nervously together. "Your description is not unjust; indeed, it is quite accurate from a mere outer point of view; yet beneath her vivacious manner I have found her thoughtful, and possessed of deep spiritual yearnings. In the East she was a communicant of the Episcopal Church."

Brant did not answer him at once. He was studying the minister's downcast face; but when the latter finally turned to depart, he inquired, "Do you expect to attend the reception to-morrow evening?"

Wynkoop stammered slightly. "I—I could hardly refuse under the circumstances; the committee sent me an especially urgent invitation, and I understand there is to be no dancing until late. One cannot be too straight-laced out here."

"Oh, never mind apologizing. I see no reason why you need hesitate to attend. I merely wondered if you could procure me an invitation."

"Did she tell you about it?"

"Well, she delicately hinted at it, and, you know, things are pretty slow here in a social way. She merely suggested that I might possibly meet her again there."

"Of course; it is given in her honor."

"So I understood, although she sought to deceive me into the belief that she was not the lady. We met purely by accident, you understand, and I am desirous of a more formal presentation."

The minister drew in his breath sharply, but the clasp of his extended hand was not devoid of warmth. "I will have a card of invitation sent you at the camp. The committee will be very glad of your presence; only I warn you frankly regarding the lady, that competition will be strong."

"Oh, so far as that is concerned I have not yet entered the running," laughed Brant, in affected carelessness, "although I must confess my sporting proclivities are somewhat aroused."

He watched the minister walking rapidly away, a short, erect figure, appearing slender in his severely cut black cloth. "Poor little chap," he muttered, regretfully. "He's hard hit. Still, they say all's fair in love and war."



CHAPTER V

IN HONOR OF MISS SPENCER

Mr. Jack Moffat, president of the Bachelor Miners' Pleasure Club, had embraced the idea of a reception for Miss Spencer with unbounded enthusiasm. Indeed, the earliest conception of such an event found birth within his fertile brain, and from the first he determined upon making it the most notable social function ever known in that portion of the Territory.

Heretofore the pastime of the Bachelors' Club had been largely bibulous, and the members thereof had exhibited small inclination to seek the ordinary methods of social relaxation as practised in Glencaid. Pink teas, or indeed teas of any conceivable color, had never proved sufficiently attractive to wean the members from the chaste precincts of the Occidental or the Miners' Retreat, while the mysterious pleasure of "Hunt the Slipper" and "Spat in and Spat out" had likewise utterly failed to inveigle them from retirement. But Mr. Moffat's example wrought an immediate miracle, so that, long before the fateful hour arrived, every registered bachelor was laboring industriously to make good the proud boast of their enthusiastic president, that this was going to be "the swellest affair ever pulled off west of the Missouri."

The large space above the Occidental was secured for the occasion, the obstructing subdivisions knocked away, an entrance constructed with an outside stairway leading up from a vacant lot, and the passage connecting the saloon boarded up. Incidentally, Mr. Moffat took occasion to announce that if "any snoozer got drunk and came up them stairs" he would be thrown bodily out of a window. Mr. McNeil, who was observing the preliminary proceedings with deep interest from a pile of lumber opposite, sarcastically intimated that under such circumstances the attendance of club members would be necessarily limited. Mr. Moffat's reply it is manifestly impossible to quote literally. Mrs. Guffy was employed to provide the requisite refreshments in the palatial dining-hall of the hotel, while Buck Mason, the vigilant town marshal, popularly supposed to know intimately the face of every "rounder" in the Territory, agreed to collect the cards of invitation at the door, and bar out obnoxious visitors.

These preliminaries having been duly attended to, Mr. Moffat and his indefatigable committee of arrangements proceeded to master the details of decoration and entertainment, drawing heavily upon the limited resources of the local merchants, and even invading private homes in search after beautifying material. Jim Lane drove his buckboard one hundred and sixty miles to Cheyenne to gather up certain needed articles of adornment, the selection of which could not be safely confided to the inartistic taste of the stage-driver. Upon his rapid return journey loaded down with spoils, Peg Brace, a cow-puncher in the "Bar O" gang, rode recklessly alongside his speeding wheels for the greater portion of the distance, apparently in most jovial humor, and so unusually inquisitive as to make Mr. Lane, as he later expressed it, "plum tired." The persistent rider finally deserted him, however, at the ford over the Sinsiniwa, shouting derisively back from a safe distance that the Miners' Club was a lot of chumps, and promising them a severe "jolt" in the near future.

Indeed, it was becoming more and more apparent that a decided feeling of hostility was fast developing between the respective partisans of Moffat and McNeil. Thus far the feud merely smouldered, finding occasional expression in sarcastic speech, and the severance of former friendly relations, but it boded more serious trouble for the near future. To a loyal henchman, Moffat merely condescended to remark, glancing disdainfully at a knot of hard riders disconsolately sitting their ponies in front of the saloon door, "We 've got them fellers roped and tied, gents, and they simply won't be ace-high with the ladies of this camp after our fandango is over with. We're a holdin' the hand this game, an' it simply sweeps the board clean. That duffer McNeil's the sickest looking duck I 've seen in a year, an' the whole blame bunch of cow-punchers is corralled so tight there can't a steer among 'em get a nose over the pickets."

He glanced over the waiting scene of festivities with intense satisfaction. From bare squalor the spacious apartment had been converted into a scene of almost gorgeous splendor. The waxed floor was a perfect marvel of smoothness; the numerous windows had been heavily draped in red, white, and blue hangings; festoons of the same rich hues hung gracefully suspended from the ceiling, trembling to the least current of air; oil lamps, upheld by almost invisible wires, dangled in profusion; while within the far corner, occupying a slightly raised platform later to be utilized by the orchestra, was an imposing pulpit chair lent by the Presbyterian Church, resting upon a rug of skins, and destined as the seat of honor for the fair guest of the evening. Moffat surveyed all this thoughtfully, and proceeded proudly to the hotel to don a "boiled" shirt, and in other ways prepare himself to do honor to his exalted office. Much to the surprise of McNeil, lounging with some cronies on the shaded porch, he nodded to him genially, adding a hearty, "Hello there, Bill," as he passed carelessly by.

The invited guests arrived from the sparsely settled regions round about, not a few riding for a hundred miles over the hard trails. The majority came early, arrayed in whatsoever apparel their limited wardrobes could supply, but ready for any wild frolic. The men outnumbered the gentler sex five to one, but every feminine representative within a radius of about fifty miles, whose respectability could possibly pass muster before the investigations of a not too critical invitation committee, was present amid the throng, attired in all the finery procurable, and supremely and serenely happy in the assured consciousness that she would not lack partners whenever the enticing music began.

The gratified president of the Pleasure Club had occasion to expand his chest with just pride. Jauntily twirling his silky mustaches, he pushed his way through the jostling, good-natured crowd already surging toward the entrance of the hall, and stepped briskly forth along the moonlit road toward the Herndon home, where the fair queen of the revels awaited his promised escort. It was his hour of supreme triumph, and his head swam with the delicious intoxication of well-earned success, the plaudits of his admirers, and the fond anticipation of Miss Spencer's undoubted surprise and gratitude. His, therefore, was the step and bearing of a conqueror, of one whose cup was already filled to the brim, and running over with the joy of life.

The delay incident to the completion of an elaborate toilet, together with the seductive charms of a stroll through the moon-haunted night beneath the spell of bright eyes and whispered words, resulted in a later arrival at the scene of festivities than had been intended. The great majority of the expected guests had already assembled, and were becoming somewhat restless. No favored courtier ever escorted beloved queen with greater pride or ceremony than that with which Mr. Moffat led his blushing charge through the throng toward her chair of state. The murmuring voices, the admiring eyes, the hush of expectancy, all contributed to warm the cockles of his heart and to color his face with the glow of victory. Glancing at his companion, he saw her cheeks flushed, her head held proudly poised, her countenance evidencing the enjoyment of the moment, and he felt amply rewarded for the work which had produced so glorious a result. A moment he bent above her chair, whispering one last word of compliment into the little ear which reddened at his bold speech, and feasting his ardent eyes upon the flushed and animated countenance. The impatient crowd wondered at the nature of the coming ceremony, and Mr. Moffat strove to recall the opening words of his introductory address.

Suddenly his gaze settled upon one face amid the throng. A moment of hesitation followed; then a quick whisper of excuse to the waiting divinity in the chair, and the perturbed president pressed his way toward the door. Buck Mason stood there on guard, carelessly leaning against the post, his star of office gleaming beneath the light.

"Buck," exclaimed Moffat, "how did that feller McNeil, and those other cow-punchers, get in here? You had your orders."

Mason turned his quid deliberately and spat at the open door. "You bet I did, Jack," he responded cheerfully, yet with a trifle of exasperation evident in his eyes. "And what's more, I reckon they was obeyed. There ain't nobody got in yere ternight without they had a cyard."

"Well, there has"; and Moffat forgot his natural caution in a sudden excess of anger. "No invitations was sent them fellers. Do you mean to say they come in through the roof?"

Mason straightened up, his face darkening, his clinched fist thrashing the air just in front of Moffat's nose.

"I say they come in yere, right through this door! An' every mother's son of 'em, hed a cyard. I know what I 'm a-talkin' about, you miserable third-class idiot, an' if you give me any more of your lip I 'll paste you good an' proper. Go back thar whar you belong, an' tind to your part of this fandango; I'm a runnin' mine."

Moffat hesitated, his brow black as a thunder cloud, but the crowd was manifestly growing restless over the delay, calling "Time!" and "Play ball!" and stamping their feet. Besides, Buck was never known to be averse to a quarrel, and Moffat's bump of caution was well developed. He went back, nursing his wrath and cursing silently. The crowd greeted his reappearance with prolonged applause, and some of the former consciousness of victory returned. He glanced down into the questioning eyes of Miss Spencer, cleared his throat, then grasped her hand, and, as they stood there together, all his confidence came surging back.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of Glencaid," he began gracefully, "as president of the Bachelor Miners' Pleasure Club, it affords me extreme gratification to welcome you to this the most important social event ever pulled off in this Territory. It's going to be a swell affair from the crack of the starter's pistol to the last post, and you can bet on getting your money's worth every time. That's the sort of hairpins we are—all wool and a yard wide. Now, ladies and gents, while it is not designed that the pleasure of this evening be marred by any special formalities, any such unnatural restrictions as disfigure such functions in the effete East [applause], and while I am only too anxious to exclaim with the poet, 'On with the dance, let joy be unconfined' [great applause], yet it must be remembered that this high-toned outfit has been got up for a special, definite purpose, as a fit welcome to one who has come among us with the high and holy object of instructing our offspring and elevating the educational ideals of this community. We, of this Bachelors' Club, may possess no offspring to instruct, but we sympathize with them others who have, and desire to show our interest in the work. We have here with us to-night one of the loveliest of her sex, a flower of refinement and culture plucked from the Eastern hills, who, at the stern call of duty, has left her home and friends to devote her talents to this labor of love. In her honor we meet, in her honor this room has been decorated with the colors of our beloved country, and to her honor we now dedicate the fleeting hours of this festal night. It is impossible for her to greet you all personally, much as she wishes to do so, but as president of the Bachelor Miners' Pleasure Club, and also," with a deep bow to his blushing and embarrassed companion, "I may venture to add, as an intimate friend of our fair guest, I now introduce to you Glencaid's new schoolmistress—Miss Phoebe Spencer. Hip! Hip! Hurrah!"

Swinging his hand high above his head, the enthusiastic orator led the noisy cheers which instantly burst forth in unrestrained volume; and before which Miss Spencer shrank back into her chair, trembling, yet strangely happy. Good humor swayed that crowd, laughter rippled from parted lips, while voices here and there began a spontaneous demand for a speech. Miss Spencer shook her flossy head helplessly, feeling too deeply agitated to utter a word; and Moffat, now oblivious to everything but the important part he was playing in the brilliant spectacle, stepped before her, waving the clamorous assembly into temporary and expectant silence.

"Our charming guest," he announced, in tones vibrant with authority, "is so deeply affected by this spontaneous outpouring of your good-will as to be unable to respond in words. Let us respect her natural embarrassment; let us now exhibit that proud Western chivalry which will cause her to feel perfectly at home in our midst. The orchestra will strike up, and amid the mazy whirling of the dance we will at once sink all formality, as becomes citizens of this free and boundless West, this land of gold, of sterling manhood, and womanly beauty. To slightly change the poet's lines, written of a similar occasion:

"There was a sound of revelry by night, And proud Glencaid had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.

"So, scatter out, gents, and pick up your partners for the first whirl. This is our turn to treat, and our motto is 'Darn the expense.'"

He bent over, purposing to lead the lady of his heart forth to the earliest strains of the violins, his genial smile evidencing his satisfaction.

"Say,—eh—just hold on—eh—a minute!"

Moffat wheeled about, a look of amazement replacing his previous jovial smile. His eyes hardened dangerously as they encountered the face of McNeil. The latter was white about the lips, but primed for action, and not inclined to waste time in preliminaries.

"Look here, this ain't your time to butt in—" began Moffat, angrily, but the other waved his hand.

"Say, gents,—eh—that feller had his spiel all right—eh—ain't he? He wants to be—eh—the whole hog, but—eh,—I reckon this is a—eh—free country, ain't it? Don't I have—eh—no show?"

"Go on, Bill!"

"Of course you do."

"Make Jack Moffat shut up!"

The justly indignant president of the Bachelors' Club remained motionless, his mouth still open, struggling to restrain those caustic and profane remarks which, in that presence, he dare not utter. He instinctively flung one hand back to his hip, only to remember that all guns had been left at the door. McNeil eyed him calmly, as he might eye a chained bear, his lips parted in a genial smile.

"I—eh—ain't no great shakes of an—eh—orator," he began, apologetically, waving one hand toward his gasping rival, "like Mr.—eh—Moffat. I can't sling words round—eh—reckless, like the—eh—gent what just had the floor, ner—eh—spout poetry, but I reckon—eh—I kin git out—eh—'bout what I got to say. Mr. Moffat has—eh—told you what the—eh—Bachelor Miners' Club—eh—has been a-doin'. He—eh—spread it on pretty blame thick, but—eh—I reckon they ain't—eh—all of 'em miners round this yere—eh—camp. As the—eh—president of the—eh—Cattlemen's Shakespearian—eh—Reading Circle, I am asked to present to—eh—Miss Spencer a slight token—eh—of our esteem, and—eh—to express our pleasure at—eh—being permitted," he bowed to the choking Mr. Moffat, "eh—to participate in this—eh—most glorious occasion."

He stepped forward, and dropped into Miss Spencer's lap a small plush-covered box. Her fingers pressed the spring, and, as the lid flew open, the brilliant flash of a diamond dazzled her eyes. She sat staring at it, unable for the moment to find speech. Then the assemblage burst into an unrestrained murmur of admiration, and the sound served to arouse her.

"Oh, how beautiful it all is!" she exclaimed, rapturously. "I hardly know what to say, or whom to thank. I never heard of anything so perfectly splendid before. It makes me cry just to remember that it is all done for me. Oh, Mr. Moffat, I want to thank, through you, the gentlemen of the Bachelors' Club for this magnificent reception. I know I do not deserve it, but it makes me so proud to realize the interest you all take in my work. And, Mr. McNeil, I beg you to return my gratitude to the gentlemen of the—the (oh, thank you)—the Cattlemen's Shakespearian Reading Circle (how very nice of you to have such an organization for the study of higher literature!) for this superb gift. I shall never forget this night, or what it has brought me, and I simply cannot express my real feelings at all; I—I don't know what to say, or—or what to do."

She paused, burying her face in her hands, her body shaken with sobs. Moffat, scarcely knowing whether to swear or smile, hastily signalled for the waiting musicians to begin. As they swung merrily into waltz measure he stepped forward, fully confident of his first claim for that opening dance, and vaguely conscious that, once upon the floor with her, he might thus regain his old leadership. Miss Spencer glanced up at him through her tears.

"I—I really feel scarcely equal to the attempt," she murmured nervously, yet rising to her feet. Then a new thought seemed suddenly to occur to her. "Oh, Mr. Moffat, I have been so highly favored, and I am so extremely anxious to do everything I can to show my gratitude. I know it is requesting so much of you to ask your relinquishment of this first dance with me to-night. As president of the Bachelors' Club it is your right, of course, but don't you truly think I ought to give it to Mr. McNeil? We were together all the way from the house, you know, and we had such a delightful walk. You wouldn't truly mind yielding up your claim for just this once, would you?"

Moffat did not reply, simply because he could not; he was struck dumb, gasping for breath, the room whirling around before him, while he stared at her with dazed, unseeing eyes. His very helplessness to respond she naturally interpreted as acquiescence.

"It is so good of you, Mr. Moffat, for I realize how you were counting upon this first dance, were n't you? But Mr. McNeil being here as the guest of your club, I think it is perfectly beautiful of you to waive your own rights as president, so as to acknowledge his unexpected contribution to the joy of our evening." She touched him playfully with her hand, the other resting lightly upon McNeil's sleeve, her innocent, happy face upturned to his dazed eyes. "But remember, the next turn is to be yours, and I shall never forget this act of chivalry."

It is doubtful if he saw her depart, for the entire room was merely an indistinct blur. He was too desperately angry even to swear. In this emergency, Mr. Wynkoop, dimly realizing that something unpleasant had occurred, sought to attract the attention of his new parishioner along happier lines.

"How exceedingly strange it is, Mr. Moffat," he ventured, "that beings otherwise rational, and possessing souls destined for eternity, can actually appear to extract pleasure from such senseless exercises? I do not in the least blame Miss Spencer, for she is yet young, and probably thoughtless about such matters, as the youthful are wont to be, but I am, indeed, rejoiced to note that you do not dance."

Moffat wheeled upon him, his teeth grinding savagely together. "Shut up!" he snapped, fiercely, and shaking off the pastor's gently restraining fingers, shouldered his passage through the crowd toward the door.



CHAPTER VI

THE LIEUTENANT MEETS MISS SPENCER

Lieutenant Brant was somewhat delayed in reaching the scene of Miss Spencer's social triumph. Certain military requirements were largely responsible for this delay, and he had patiently wrestled with an unsatisfactory toilet, mentally excoriating a service which would not permit the transportation of dress uniforms while on scouting detail. Nevertheless, when he finally stepped forth into the brilliant moonlight, he presented an interesting, soldierly figure, his face still retaining a bit of the boy about it, his blue eyes bright with expectancy. That afternoon he had half decided not to go at all, the glamour of such events having long before grown dim, but the peculiar attraction of this night proved too strong; not thus easily could he erase from memory the haunting witchery of a face. Beyond doubt, when again viewed amid the conventionalities, much of its imagined charm would vanish; yet he would see her once more, although no longer looking forward to drawing a prize.

The dance was already in full swing, the exciting preliminaries having been largely forgotten in the exuberance of motion, when he finally pushed his way through the idle loungers gathered about the door, and gained entrance to the hall. Many glanced curiously at him, attracted by the glitter of his uniform, but he recognized none among them, and therefore passed steadily toward the musicians' stand, where there appeared to be a few unoccupied chairs.

The scene was one of color and action. The rapid, pulsating music, the swiftly whirling figures, the quivering drapery overhead, the bright youthful faces, the glow of numerous lamps, together with the ceaseless voices and merry shuffling of feet, all combined to create a scene sufficiently picturesque. It was altogether different from what he had anticipated. He watched the speeding figures, striving in vain to distinguish the particular one whose charms had lured him thither. He looked upon fair faces in plenty, flushed cheeks and glowing eyes skurried past him, with swirling skirts and flashes of neatly turned ankles, as these enthusiastic maids and matrons from hill and prairie strove to make amends for long abstinence. But among them all he was unable to distinguish the wood-nymph whose girlish frankness and grace had left so deep an impression on his memory. Yet surely she must be present, for, to his understanding, this whole gay festival was in her honor. Directly across the room he caught sight of the Reverend Mr. Wynkoop conversing with a lady of somewhat rounded charms, and picked his way in their direction.

The missionary, who had yet scarcely recovered from the shock of Moffat's impulsive speech, and who, in truth, had been hiding an agonized heart behind a smiling face, was only too delighted at any excuse which would enable him to approach Miss Spencer, and press aside those cavaliers who were monopolizing her attention. The handicap of not being able to dance he felt to be heavy, and he greeted the lieutenant with unusual heartiness of manner.

"Why, most assuredly, my dear sir, most assuredly," he said. "Mrs. Herndon, permit me to make you acquainted with Lieutenant Brant, of the Seventh Cavalry."

The two, thus introduced, bowed, and exchanged a few words, while Mr. Wynkoop busied himself in peering about the room, making a great pretence at searching out the lady guest, who, in very truth, had scarcely been absent from his sight during the entire evening.

"Ah!" he ejaculated, "at last I locate her, and, fortunately, at this moment she is not upon the floor, although positively hidden by the men clustering about her chair. You will excuse us, Mrs. Herndon, but I have promised Lieutenant Brant a presentation to your niece."

They slipped past the musicians' stand, and the missionary pressed in through the ring of admirers.

"Why, Mr. Wynkoop!" and she extended both hands impulsively. "And only to think, you have never once been near me all this evening; you have not congratulated me on my good fortune, nor exhibited the slightest interest! You don't know how much I have missed you. I was just saying to Mr. Moffat—or it might have been Mr. McNeil—that I was completely tired out and wished you were here to sit out this dance with me."

Wynkoop blushed and forgot the errand which had brought him there, but she remained sufficiently cool and observant. She touched him gently with her hand.

"Who is that fine-looking young officer?" she questioned softly, yet without venturing to remove her glance from his face.

Mr. Wynkoop started. "Oh, exactly; I had forgotten my mission. He has requested an introduction." He drew the lieutenant forward. "Lieutenant Brant, Miss Spencer."

The officer bowed, a slight shadow of disappointment in his eyes. The lady was unquestionably attractive, her face animated, her reception most cordial, yet she was not the maiden of the dark, fathomless eyes and the wealth of auburn hair.

"Such a pleasure to meet you," exclaimed Miss Spencer, her eyes uplifted shyly, only to become at once modestly shaded behind their long lashes. "Do you know, Lieutenant, that actually I have never before had the privilege of meeting an officer of the army. Why, we in the East scarcely realize that we possess such a body of brave men. But I have read much regarding the border, and all the dreams of my girlhood seem on the point of realization since I came here and began mingling in its free, wild life. Your appearance supplies the one touch of color that was lacking to make the picture complete. Mr. Moffat has done so much to make me realize the breadth of Western experience, and now, I do so hope, you will some time find opportunity to recount to me some of your army exploits."

The lieutenant smiled. "Most gladly; yet just now, I confess, the music invites me, and I am sufficiently bold to request your company upon the floor."

Miss Spencer sighed regretfully, her eyes sweeping across those numerous manly faces surrounding them. "Why, really, Lieutenant Brant, I scarcely see how I possibly can. I have already refused so many this evening, and even now I almost believe I must be under direct obligation to some one of those gentlemen. Still," hesitatingly, "your being a total stranger here must be taken into consideration. Mr. Moffat, Mr. McNeil, Mr. Mason, surely you will grant me release this once?"

There was no verbal response to the appeal, only an uneasy movement; but her period of waiting was extremely brief.

"Oh, I knew you would; you have all been so kind and considerate." She arose, resting her daintily gloved hand upon Brant's blue sleeve, her pleased eyes smiling up confidingly into his. Then with a charming smile, "Oh, Mr. Wynkoop, I have decided to claim your escort to supper. You do not care?"

Wynkoop bowed, his face like a poppy.

"I thought you would not mind obliging me in this. Come, Lieutenant."

Miss Spencer, when she desired to be, was a most vivacious companion, and always an excellent dancer. Brant easily succumbed to her sway, and became, for the time being, a victim to her charms. They circled the long room twice, weaving their way skilfully among the numerous couples, forgetful of everything but the subtile intoxication of that swinging cadence to which their feet kept such perfect time, occasionally exchanging brief sentences in which compliment played no insignificant part. To Brant, as he marked the heightened color flushing her fair cheeks, the experience brought back fond memories of his last cadet ball at the Point, and he hesitated to break the mystic spell with abrupt questioning. Curiosity, however, finally mastered his reticence.

"Miss Spencer," he asked, "may I inquire if you possess such a phenomenon as a 'star' pupil?"

The lady laughed merrily, but her expression became somewhat puzzled. "Really, what a very strange question! Why, not unless it might be little Sammy Worrell; he can certainly use the longest words I ever heard of outside a dictionary. Why, may I ask? Are you especially interested in prodigies?"

"Oh, not in the least; certainly not in little Sammy Worrell. The person I had reference to chances to be a young woman, having dark eyes, and a wealth of auburn hair. We met quite by accident, and the sole clew I now possess to her identity is a claim she advanced to being your 'star' pupil."

Miss Spencer sighed somewhat regretfully, and her eyes fell. "I fear it must have been Naida, from your description. But she is scarcely more than a child. Surely, Lieutenant, it cannot be possible that you have become interested in her?"

He smiled pleasantly. "At least eighteen, is she not? I was somewhat impressed with her evident originality, and hoped to renew our slight acquaintanceship here in more formal manner. She is your 'star' pupil, then?"

"Why, she is not really in my school at all, but I outline the studies she pursues at home, and lend her such books as I consider best adapted for her reading. She is such a strange girl!"

"Indeed? She appeared to me to be extremely unconventional, with a decided tendency for mischief. Is that your meaning?"

"Partially. She manages to do everything in a different way from other people. Her mind seems peculiarly independent, and she is so unreservedly Western in her ways and language. But I was referring rather to her taste in books—she devours everything."

"You mean as a student?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so; at least she appears to possess the faculty of absorbing every bit of information, like a sponge. Sometimes she actually startles me with her odd questions; they are so unexpected and abstruse, falling from the lips of so young a girl. Then her ideas are so crude and uncommon, and she is so frankly outspoken, that I become actually nervous when I am with her. I really believe Mr. Wynkoop seeks to avoid meeting her, she has shocked him so frequently in religious matters."

"Does she make light of his faith?"

"Oh, no, not that exactly, at least it is not her intention. But she wants to know everything—why we believe this and why we believe that, doctrines which no one else ever dreams of questioning, and he cannot seem to make them clear to her mind. Some of her questions are so irreverent as to be positively shocking to a spiritually minded person."

They lapsed into silence, swinging easily to the guidance of the music. His face was grave and thoughtful. This picture just drawn of the perverse Naida had not greatly lowered her in his estimation, although he felt instinctively that Miss Spencer was not altogether pleased with his evident interest in another. It was hardly in her nature patiently to brook a rival, but she dissembled with all the art of a clever woman, smiling happily up into his face as their eyes again met.

"It is very interesting to know that you two met in so unconventional a way," she ventured, softly, "and so sly of her not even to mention it to me. We are room-mates, you know, and consequently quite intimate, although she possesses many peculiar characteristics which I cannot in the least approve. But after all, Naida is really a good-hearted girl enough, and she will probably outgrow her present irregular ways, for, indeed, she is scarcely more than a child. I shall certainly do my best to guide her aright. Would you mind giving me some details of your meeting?"

For a moment he hesitated, feeling that if the girl had not seen fit to confide her adventure to this particular friend, it was hardly his place to do so. Then, remembering that he had already said enough to arouse curiosity, which might easily be developed into suspicion, he determined his course. In a few words the brief story was frankly told, and apparently proved quite amusing to Miss Spencer.

"Oh, that was Naida, beyond a doubt," she exclaimed, with a laugh of satisfaction. "It is all so characteristic of her. I only wonder how she chanced to guess your name; but really the girl appears to possess some peculiar gift in thus discerning facts hidden from others. Her instincts seem so finely developed that at times she reminds me of a wild animal."

This caustic inference did not please him, but he said nothing, and the music coming to a pause, they slowly traversed the room.

"I presume, then, she is not present?" he said, quietly.

Miss Spencer glanced into his face, the grave tone making her apprehensive that she might have gone too far.

"She was here earlier in the evening, but now that you remind me of it, I do not recall having noticed her of late. But, really, Lieutenant, it is no part of my duty to chaperon the young girl. Mrs. Herndon could probably inform you of her present whereabouts."

Miss Spencer was conscious of the sting of failure, and her face flushed with vexation. "It is extremely close in here, don't you think?" she complained. "And I was so careless as to mislay my fan. I feel almost suffocated."

"Did you leave it at home?" he questioned. "Possibly I might discover a substitute somewhere in the room."

"Oh, no; I would never think of troubling you to such an extent. No doubt this feeling of lassitude will pass away shortly. It was very foolish of me, but I left the fan with my wraps at the hotel. It can be recovered when we go across to supper."

In spite of Miss Spencer's quiet words of renunciation, there was a look of pleading in her shyly uplifted eyes impossible to resist. Brant promptly surrendered before this masked battery.

"It will be no more than a pleasure to recover it for you," he protested, gallantly.

The stairs leading down from the hall entrance were shrouded in darkness, the street below nearly deserted of loiterers, although lights streamed forth resplendently from the undraped windows of the Occidental and the hotel opposite. Assisted in his search by Mrs. Guffy, the officer succeeded in recovering the lost fan, and started to return. Just without the hotel door, under the confusing shadows of the wide porch, he came suddenly face to face with a young woman, the unexpected encounter a mutual and embarrassing surprise.



CHAPTER VII

AN UNUSUAL GIRL

The girl was without wraps, her dress of some light, fleecy material fitting her slender figure exquisitely, her head uncovered; within her eyes Brant imagined he could detect the glint of tears. She spoke first, her voice faltering slightly.

"Will you kindly permit me to pass?"

He stepped instantly to one side, bowing as he did so.

"I beg your pardon for such seeming rudeness," he said, gravely. "I have been seeking you all the evening, yet this unexpected meeting caught me quite unawares."

"You have been seeking me? That is strange. For what reason, pray?"

"To achieve what you were once kind enough to suggest as possible—the formality of an introduction. It would seem, however, that fate makes our meetings informal."

"That is your fault, not mine."

"I gladly assume all responsibility, if you will only waive the formality and accept my friendship."

Her face seemed to lighten, while her lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. "You are very forgetful. Did I not tell you that we Presbyterians are never guilty of such indiscretions?"

"I believe you did, but I doubt your complete surrender to the creed."

"Doubt! Only our second time of meeting, and you already venture to doubt! This can scarcely be construed into a compliment, I fear."

"Yet to my mind it may prove the very highest type of compliment," he returned, reassured by her manner. "For a certain degree of independence in both thought and action is highly commendable. Indeed, I am going to be bold enough to add that it was these very attributes that awakened my interest in you."

"Oh, indeed; you cause me to blush already. My frankness, I fear, bids fair to cost me all my friends, and I may even go beyond your pardon, if the perverse spirit of my nature so move me."

"The risk of such a catastrophe is mine, and I would gladly dare that much to get away from conventional commonplace. One advantage of such meetings as ours is an immediate insight into each other's deeper nature. For one I shall sincerely rejoice if you will permit the good fortune of our chance meeting to be alone sponsor for our future friendship. Will you not say yes?"

She looked at him with greater earnestness, her young face sobered by the words spoken. Whatever else she may have seen revealed there, the countenance bending slightly toward her was a serious, manly one, inspiring respect, awakening confidence.

"And I do agree," she said, extending her hand in a girlish impulse. "It will, at least, be a new experience and therefore worth the trial. I will even endeavor to restrain my rebellious spirit, so that you will not be unduly shocked."

He laughed, now placed entirely at his ease. "Your need of mercy is appreciated, fair lady. Is it your desire to return to the hall?"

She shook her head positively. "A cheap, gaudy show, all bluster and vulgarity. Even the dancing is a mere parody. I early tired of it."

"Then let us choose the better part, and sit here on the bench, the night our own."

He conducted her across the porch to the darkest corner, where only rifts of light stole trembling in between the shadowing vines, and there found convenient seats. A moment they remained in silence, and he could hear her breathing.

"Have you truly been at the hall," she questioned, "or were you merely fibbing to awaken my interest?"

"I truly have been," he answered, "and actually have danced a measure with the fair guest of the evening."

"With Phoebe Spencer! And yet you dare pretend now to retain an interest in me? Lieutenant Brant, you must be a most talented deceiver, or else the strangest person I ever met. Such a miracle has never occurred before!"

"Well, it has certainly occurred now; nor am I in this any vain deceiver. I truly met Miss Spencer. I was the recipient of her most entrancing smiles; I listened to her modulated voice; I bore her off, a willing captive, from a throng of despairing admirers; I danced with her, gazing down into her eyes, with her fluffy hair brushing my cheek, yet resisted all her charms and came forth thinking only of you."

"Indeed? Your proof?"

He drew the white satin fan forth from his pocket, and held it out toward her with mock humility. "This, unbelieving princess. Despatched by the fair lady in question to fetch this bauble from the dressing-room, I forgot my urgent errand in the sudden delight of finding you."

"The case seems fully proved," she confessed, laughingly, "and it is surely not my duty to punish the culprit. What did you talk about? But, pshaw, I know well enough without asking—she told you how greatly she admired the romance of the West, and begged you to call upon her with a recital of your own exploits. Have I not guessed aright?"

"Partially, at least; some such expressions were used."

"Of course, they always are. I do not know whether they form merely a part of her stock in trade, or are spoken earnestly. You would laugh to hear the tales of wild and thrilling adventure which she picks up, and actually believes. That Jack Moffat possesses the most marvellous imagination for such things, and if I make fun of his impossible stories she becomes angry in an instant."

"I am afraid you do not greatly admire this Miss Spencer?"

"Oh, but I do; truly I do. You must not think me ungrateful. No one has ever helped me more, and beneath this mask of artificiality she is really a noble-hearted woman. I do not understand the necessity for people to lead false lives. Is it this way in all society—Eastern society, I mean? Do men and women there continually scheme and flirt, smile and stab, forever assuming parts like so many play-actors?"

"It is far too common," he admitted, touched by her naive questioning. "What is known as fashionable social life has become an almost pitiful sham, and you can scarcely conceive the relief it is to meet with one utterly uncontaminated by its miserable deceits, its shallow make-believes. It is no wonder you shock the nerves of such people; the deed is easily accomplished."

"But I do not mean to." And she looked at him gravely, striving to make him comprehend. "I try so hard to be—be commonplace, and—and satisfied. Only there is so much that seems silly, useless, pitifully contemptible that I lose all patience. Perhaps I need proper training in what Miss Spencer calls refinement; but why should I pretend to like what I don't like, and to believe what I don't believe? Cannot one act a lie as well as speak one? And is it no longer right to search after the truth?"

"I have always felt it was our duty to discover the truth wherever possible," he said, thoughtfully; "yet, I confess, the search is not fashionable, nor the earnest seeker popular."

A little trill of laughter flowed from between her parted lips, but the sound was not altogether merry.

"Most certainly I am not. They all scold me, and repeat with manifest horror the terrible things I say, being unconscious that they are evil. Why should I suspect thoughts that come to me naturally? I want to know, to understand. I grope about in the dark. It seems to me sometimes that this whole world is a mystery. I go to Mr. Wynkoop with my questions, and they only seem to shock him. Why should they? God must have put all these doubts and wonderings into my mind, and there must be an answer for them somewhere. Mr. Wynkoop is a good man, I truly respect him. I want to please him, and I admire his intellectual attainments; but how can he accept so much on faith, and be content? Do you really suppose he is content? Don't you think he ever questions as I do? or has he actually succeeded in smothering every doubt? He cannot answer what I ask him; he cannot make things clear. He just pulls up a few, cheap, homely weeds,—useless common things,—when I beg for flowers; he hands them to me, and bids me seek greater faith through prayer. I know I am a perfect heathen,—Miss Spencer says I am,—but do you think it is so awful for me to want to know these things?"

He permitted his hand to drop upon hers, and she made no motion of displeasure.

"You merely express clearly what thousands feel without the moral courage to utter it. The saddest part of it all is, the deeper we delve the less we are satisfied in our intellectual natures. We merely succeed in learning that we are the veriest pygmies. Men like Mr. Wynkoop are simply driven back upon faith as a last resort, absolutely baffled by an inpenetrable wall, against which they batter mentally in vain. They have striven with mystery, only to meet with ignominious defeat. Faith alone remains, and I dare not deny that such faith is above all knowledge. The pity of it is, there are some minds to whom this refuge is impossible. They are forever doomed to be hungry and remain unfed; thirsty, yet unable to quench their thirst."

"Are you a church member?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe those things you do not understand?"

He drew a deep breath, scarcely knowing at that moment how best to answer, yet sincerely anxious to lead this girl toward the light.

"The majority of men do not talk much about such matters. They hold them sacred. Yet I will speak frankly with you. I could not state in words my faith so that it would be clearly apprehended by the mind of another. I am in the church because I believe its efforts are toward righteousness, because I believe the teachings of Christ are perfect. His life the highest possible type of living, and because through Him we receive all the information regarding a future existence which we possess. That my mind rests satisfied I do not say; I simply accept what is given, preferring a little light to total darkness."

"But here they refuse to accept any one like that. They say I am not yet in a fit state of mind."

"Such a judgment would seem to me narrow. I was fortunate in coming under the influence of a broad-minded religious teacher. To my statement of doubts he simply said: 'Believe what you can; live the very best you can, and keep your mind open toward the light.' It seems to me now this is all that anyone can do whose nature will not permit of blind, unquestioning faith. To require more of ordinary human beings is unreasonable, for God gave us mind and ability to think."

There was a pause, so breathless they could hear the rustle of the leaves in the almost motionless air, while the strains of gay music floating from the open windows sounded loud and strident.

"I am so glad you have spoken in that way," she confessed. "I shall never feel quite so much alone in the world again, and I shall see these matters from a different viewpoint. Is it wrong—unwomanly, I mean—for me to question spiritual things?"

"I am unable to conceive why it should be. Surely woman ought to be as deeply concerned in things spiritual as man."

"How very strange it is that we should thus drift into such an intimate talk at our second meeting!" she exclaimed. "But it seems so easy, so natural, to converse frankly with some people—they appear to draw out all that is best in one's heart. Then there are others who seem to parch and wither up every germ of spiritual life."

"There are those in the world who truly belong together," he urged, daringly. "They belong to each other by some divine law. They may never be privileged to meet; but if they do, the commingling of their minds and souls is natural. This talk of ours to-night has, perhaps, done me as much good as you."

"Oh, I am so glad if it has! I—I do not believe you and Miss Spencer conversed in this way?"

"Heaven forbid! And yet it might puzzle you to guess what was the main topic of our conversation."

"Did it interest you?"

"Deeply."

"Well, then, it could not be dress, or men, or Western romance, or society in Boston, or the beautiful weather. I guess it was books."

"Wrong; they were never mentioned."

"Then I shall have to give up, for I do not remember any other subjects she talks about."

"Yet it was the most natural topic imaginable—yourself."

"You were discussing me? Why, how did that happen?"

"Very simply, and I was wholly to blame. To be perfectly honest, Miss Naida, I attended the dance to-night for no other object than to meet you again. But I had argued myself into the belief that you were Miss Spencer. The discovery of my mistake merely intensified my determination to learn who you really were. With this purpose, I interviewed Miss Spencer, and during the course of our conversation the facts of my first meeting with you became known."

"You told her how very foolish I acted?"

"I told her how deeply interested I had become in your outspoken manner."

"Oh! And she exclaimed, 'How romantic!'"

"Possibly; she likewise took occasion to suggest that you were merely a child, and seemed astonished that I should have given you a second thought."

"Why, I am eighteen."

"I told her I believed you to be of that age, and she ignored my remark. But what truly surprised both of us was, how you happened to know my name."

The girl did not attempt to answer, and she was thankful enough that there was not sufficient light to betray the reddening of her cheeks.

"And you do not mean, even now, to make clear the mystery?" he asked.

"Not—now," she answered, almost timidly. "It is nothing much, only I would rather not now."

The sudden sound of voices and laughter in the street beneath brought them both to their feet.

"Why, they are coming across to supper," she exclaimed, in surprise. "How long we have been here, and it has seemed scarcely a moment! I shall certainly be in for a scolding, Lieutenant Brant; and I fear your only means of saving me from being promptly sent home in disgrace will be to escort me in to supper."

"A delightful punishment!" He drew her hand through his arm, and said: "And then you will pledge me the first dance following?"

"Oh, you must n't ask me. Really, I have not been on the floor to-night; I am not in the mood."

"Do you yield to moods?"

"Why, of course I do. Is it not a woman's privilege? If you know me long it will be to find me all moods."

"If they only prove as attractive as the particular one swaying you to-night, I shall certainly have no cause for complaint. Come, Miss Naida, please cultivate the mood to say yes, before those others arrive."

She glanced up at him, shaking her dark hair, her lips smiling. "My present mood is certainly a good-natured one," she confessed, softly, "and consequently it is impossible to say no."

His hand pressed hers, as the thronging couples came merrily up the steps.

"Why, Naida, is this you, child? Where have you been all this time?" It was Miss Spencer, clinging to Mr. Wynkoop's arm.

"Merely sitting out a dance," was the seemingly indifferent answer; then she added sweetly, "Have you ever met my friend, Lieutenant Brant, of the Seventh Cavalry, Phoebe? We were just going in to supper."

Miss Spencer's glance swept over the silent young officer. "I believe I have had the honor. It was my privilege to be introduced to the gentleman by a mutual friend."

The inward rush of hungry guests swept them all forward in laughing, jostling confusion; but Naida's cheeks burned with indignation.



CHAPTER VIII

THE REAPPEARANCE OF AN OLD FRIEND

After supper the Lieutenant and Naida danced twice together, the young girl's mood having apparently changed to one of buoyant, careless happiness, her dark eyes smiling, her lips uttering freely whatever thought came uppermost. Outwardly she pictured the gay and merry spirit of the night, yet to Brant, already observing her with the jealousy of a lover, she appeared distrait and restless, her affectation of abandon a mere mask to her true feelings. There was a peculiar watchfulness in her glances about the crowded room, while her flushed cheeks, and the distinctly false note in her laughter, began to trouble him not a little. Perhaps these things might have passed unnoted but for their contrast with the late confidential chat.

He could not reconcile this sudden change with what he believed of her. It was not carried out with the practised art of one accustomed to deceit. There must be something real influencing her action. These misgivings burdened his mind even as he swung lightly with her to the music, and they talked together in little snatches.

He had forgotten Miss Spencer, forgotten everything else about him, permitting himself to become enthralled by this strange girl whose name even he did not know. In every way she had appealed to his imagination, awakening his interest, his curiosity, his respect, and even now, when some secret seemed to sway her conduct, it merely served to strengthen his resolve to advance still farther in her regard. There are natures which welcome strife; they require opposition, difficulty, to develop their real strength. Brant was of this breed. The very conception that some person, even some inanimate thing, might stand between him and the heart of this fair woman acted upon him like a stimulant.

The last of the two waltzes ended, they walked slowly through the scattering throng, he striving vainly to arouse her to the former independence and intimacy of speech. While endeavoring bravely to exhibit interest, her mind too clearly wandered, and there was borne in slowly upon him the distasteful idea that she would prefer being left alone. Brant had been secretly hoping it might become his privilege to escort her home, but now he durst not breathe the words of such a request. Something indefinable had arisen between them which held the man dumb and nerveless. Suddenly they came face to face with Mrs. Herndon, and Brant felt the girl's arm twitch.

"I have been looking everywhere for you, Naida," Mrs. Herndon said, a slight complaint in her voice. "We were going home."

Naida's cheeks reddened painfully.

"I am so sorry if I have kept you waiting," her words spoken with a rush, "but—but, Lieutenant Brant was intending to accompany me. We were just starting for the cloak-room."

"Oh, indeed!" Mrs. Herndon's expression was noncommittal, while her eyes surveyed the lieutenant.

"With your permission, of course," he said.

"I hardly think I have any need to interfere."

They separated, the younger people walking slowly, silently toward the door. He held her arm, assisting her to descend the stairway, his lips murmuring a few commonplaces, to which she scarcely returned even monosyllabic replies, although she frequently flashed shy glances at his grave face. Both realized that some explanation was forthcoming, yet neither was quite prepared to force the issue.

"I have no wraps at the hotel," she said, as he attempted to turn that way. "That was a lie also; let us walk directly down the road."

He indulged in no comment, his eyes perceiving a pathetic pleading in her upturned face. Suddenly there came to him a belief that the girl was crying; he could feel the slight tremor of her form against his own. He glanced furtively at her, only to catch the glitter of a falling tear. To her evident distress, his heart made instant and sympathetic response. With all respect influencing the action, his hand closed warmly over the smaller one on his sleeve.

"Little girl," he said, forgetting the shortness of their acquaintance in the deep feeling of the moment, "tell me what the trouble is."

"I suppose you think me an awful creature for saying that," she blurted out, without looking up. "It wasn't ladylike or nice, but—but I simply could n't help it, Lieutenant Brant."

"You mean your sudden determination to carry me home with you?" he asked, relieved to think this might prove the entire difficulty. "Don't let that worry you. Why, I am simply rejoiced at being permitted to go. Do you know, I wanted to request the privilege all the time we were dancing together. But you acted so differently from when we were beneath the vines that I actually lost my nerve."

She looked up, and he caught a fleeting glimpse into her unveiled eyes.

"I did not wish you to ask me."

"What?" He stopped suddenly. "Why then did you make such an announcement to Mrs. Herndon?"

"Oh, that was different," she explained, uneasily. "I had to do that; I had to trust you to help me out, but—but I really wanted to go home alone."

He swept his unbelieving eyes around over the deserted night scene, not knowing what answer to return to so strange an avowal. "Was that what caused you to appear so distant to me in the hall, so vastly different from what you had been before?"

She nodded, but with her gaze still upon the ground.

"Miss Naida," he said, "it would be cowardly for me to attempt to dodge this issue between us. Is it because you do not like me?"

She looked up quickly, the moonlight revealing her flushed face.

"Oh, no, no! you must never think that. I told you I was a girl of moods; under those vines I had one mood, in the hall another. Cannot you understand?"

"Very little," he admitted, "for I am more inclined to believe you are the possessor of a strong will than that you are swayed by moods. Listen. If I thought that a mere senseless mood had caused your peculiar treatment of me to-night, I should feel justified in yielding to a mood also. But I will not lower you to that extent in my estimation; I prefer to believe that you are the true-hearted, frankly spoken girl of the vine shadow. It is this abiding conviction as to your true nature which holds me loyal to a test. Miss Naida, is it now your desire that I leave you?"

He stepped aside, relinquishing her arm, his hat in hand, but she did not move from where he left her.

"It—it hurts me," she faltered, "for I truly desire you to think in that way of me, and I—I don't know what is best to do. If I tell you why I wished to come alone, you might misunderstand; and if I refuse, then you will suspect wrong, and go away despising me."

"I sincerely wish you might repose sufficient confidence in me as a gentleman to believe I never betray a trust, never pry into a lady's secret."

"Oh, I do, Lieutenant Brant. It is not doubt of you at all; but I am not sure, even within my own heart, that I am doing just what is right. Besides, it will be so difficult to make you, almost a stranger, comprehend the peculiar conditions which influence my action. Even now you suspect that I am deceitful—a masked sham like those others we discussed to-night; but I have never played a part before, never skulked in the dark. To-night I simply had to do it."

Her voice was low and pleading, her eyes an appeal; and Brant could not resist the impulse to comfort.

"Then attempt no explanation," he said, gently, "and believe me, I shall continue to trust you. To-night, whatever your wish may be, I will abide by it. Shall I go, or stay? In either case you have nothing to fear."

She drew a deep breath, these open words of faith touching her more strongly than would any selfish fault-finding.

"Trust begets trust," she replied, with new firmness, and now gazing frankly into his face. "You can walk with me a portion of the way if you wish, but I am going to tell you the truth,—I have an appointment with a man."

"I naturally regret to learn this," he said, with assumed calmness. "But the way is so lonely I prefer walking with you until you have some other protector."

She accepted his proffered arm, feeling the constraint in his tone, the formality in his manner, most keenly. An older woman might have resented it, but it only served to sadden and embarrass her. He began speaking of the quiet beauty of the night, but she had no thought of what he was saying.

"Lieutenant Brant," she said, at last, "you do not ask me who the man is."

"Certainly not, Miss Naida; it is none of my business."

"I think, perhaps, it might be; the knowledge might help you to understand. It is Bob Hampton."

He stared at her. "The gambler? No wonder, then, your meeting is clandestine."

She replied indignantly, her lips trembling. "He is not a gambler; he is a miner, over in the Black Range. He has not touched a card in two years."

"Oh, reformed has he? And are you the instrument that has worked such a miracle?"

Her eyes fell. "I don't know, but I hope so." Then she glanced up again, wondering at his continued silence. "Don't you understand yet?"

"Only that you are secretly meeting a man of the worst reputation, one known the length and breadth of this border as a gambler and fighter."

"Yes; but—but don't you know who I am?"

He smiled grimly, wondering what possible difference that could make. "Certainly; you are Miss Naida Herndon."

"I? You have not known? Lieutenant Brant, I am Naida Gillis."

He stopped still, again facing her. "Naida Gillis? Do you mean old Gillis's girl? Is it possible you are the same we rescued on the prairie two years ago?"

She bowed her head. "Yes; do you understand now why I trust this Bob Hampton?"

"I perhaps might comprehend why you should feel grateful to him, but not why you should thus consent to meet with him clandestinely."

He could not see the deep flush upon her cheeks, but he was not deaf to the pitiful falter in her voice.

"Because he has been good and true to me," she explained, frankly, "better than anybody else in all the world. I don't care what you say, you and those others who do not know him, but I believe in him; I think he is a man. They won't let me see him, the Herndons, nor permit him to come to the house. He has not been in Glencaid for two years, until yesterday. The Indian rising has driven all the miners out from the Black Range, and he came down here for no other purpose than to get a glimpse of me, and learn how I was getting on. I—I saw him over at the hotel just for a moment—Mrs. Guffy handed me a note—and I—I had only just left him when I encountered you at the door. I wanted to see him again, to talk with him longer, but I couldn't manage to get away from you, and I didn't know what to do. There, I've told it all; do you really think I am so very bad, because—because I like Bob Hampton?"

He stood a moment completely nonplussed, yet compelled to answer.

"I certainly have no right to question your motives," he said, at last, "and I believe your purposes to be above reproach. I wish I might give the same credit to this man Hampton. But, Miss Naida, the world does not often consent to judge us by our own estimation of right and wrong; it prefers to place its own interpretation on acts, and thus often condemns the innocent. Others might not see this as I do, nor have such unquestioning faith in you."

"I know," she admitted, stubbornly, "but I wanted to see him; I have been so lonely for him, and this was the only possible way."

Brant felt a wave of uncontrollable sympathy sweep across him, even while he was beginning to hate this man, who, he felt, had stolen a passage into the innocent heart of a girl not half his age, one knowing little of the ways of the world. He saw again that bare desert, with those two half-dead figures clasped in each other's arms, and felt that he understood the whole miserable story of a girl's trust, a man's perfidy.

"May I walk beside you until you meet him?" he asked.

"You will not quarrel?"

"No; at least not through any fault of mine."

A few steps in the moonlight and she again took his arm, although they scarcely spoke. At the bridge she withdrew her hand and uttered a peculiar call, and Hampton stepped forth from the concealing bushes, his head bare, his hat in his hand.

"I scarcely thought it could be you," he said, seemingly not altogether satisfied, "as you were accompanied by another."

The younger man took a single step forward, his uniform showing in the moonlight. "Miss Gillis will inform you later why I am here," he said, striving to speak civilly. "You and I, however, have met before—I am Lieutenant Brant, of the Seventh Cavalry."

Hampton bowed, his manner somewhat stiff and formal, his face inpenetrable.

"I should have left Miss Gillis previous to her meeting with you," Brant continued, "but I desired to request the privilege of calling upon you to-morrow for a brief interview."

"With pleasure."

"Shall it be at ten?"

"The hour is perfectly satisfactory. You will find me at the hotel."

"You place me under obligations," said Brant, and turned toward the wondering girl. "I will now say good-night, Miss Gillis, and I promise to remember only the pleasant events of this evening."

Their hands met for an instant of warm pressure, and then the two left behind stood motionless and watched him striding along the moonlit road.



CHAPTER IX

THE VERGE OF A QUARREL

Brant's mind was a chaos of conflicting emotions, but a single abiding conviction never once left him—he retained implicit faith in her, and he purposed to fight this matter out with Hampton. Even in that crucial hour, had any one ventured to suggest that he was in love with Naida, he would merely have laughed, serenely confident that nothing more than gentlemanly interest swayed his conduct. It was true, he greatly admired the girl, recalled to memory her every movement, her slightest glance, her most insignificant word, while her marvellous eyes constantly haunted him, yet the dawn of love was not even faintly acknowledged.

Nevertheless, he manifested an unreasonable dislike for Hampton. He had never before felt thus toward this person; indeed, he had possessed a strong man's natural admiration for the other's physical power and cool, determined courage. He now sincerely feared Hampton's power over the innocent mind of the girl, imagining his influence to be much stronger than it really was, and he sought after some suitable means for overcoming it. He had no faith in this man's professed reform, no abiding confidence in his word of honor; and it seemed to him then that the entire future of the young woman's life rested upon his deliverance of her from the toils of the gambler. He alone, among those who might be considered as her true friends, knew the secret of her infatuation, and upon him alone, therefore, rested the burden of her release. It was his heart that drove him into such a decision, although he conceived it then to be the reasoning of the brain.

And so she was Naida Gillis, poor old Gillis's little girl! He stopped suddenly in the road, striving to realize the thought. He had never once dreamed of such a consummation, and it staggered him. His thought drifted back to that pale-faced, red-haired, poorly dressed slip of a girl whom he had occasionally viewed with disapproval about the post-trader's store at Bethune, and it seemed simply an impossibility. He recalled the unconscious, dust-covered, nameless waif he had once held on his lap beside the Bear Water. What was there in common between that outcast, and this well-groomed, frankly spoken young woman? Yet, whoever she was or had been, the remembrance of her could not be conjured out of his brain. He might look back with repugnance upon those others, those misty phantoms of the past, but the vision of his mind, his ever-changeable divinity of the vine shadows, would not become obscured, nor grow less fascinating. Let her be whom she might, no other could ever win that place she occupied in his heart. His mind dwelt upon her flushed cheeks, her earnest face, her wealth of glossy hair, her dark eyes filled with mingled roguery and thoughtfulness,—in utter unconsciousness that he was already her humble slave. Suddenly there occurred to him a recollection of Silent Murphy, and his strange, unguarded remark. What could the fellow have meant? Was there, indeed, some secret in the life history of this young girl?—some story of shame, perhaps? If so, did Hampton know about it?

Already daylight rested white and solemn over the silent valley, and only a short distance away lay the spot where the crippled scout had made his solitary camp. Almost without volition the young officer turned that way, crossed the stream by means of the log, and clambered up the bank. But it was clear at a glance that Murphy had deserted the spot. Convinced of this, Brant retraced his steps toward the camp of his own troop, now already astir with the duties of early morning. Just in front of his tent he encountered his first sergeant.

"Watson," he questioned, as the latter saluted and stood at attention, "do you know a man called Silent Murphy?"

"The scout? Yes, sir; knew him as long ago as when he was corporal in your father's troop. He was reduced to the ranks for striking an officer."

Brant wheeled in astonishment. "Was he ever a soldier in the Seventh?"

"He was that, for two enlistments, and a mighty tough one; but he was always quick enough for a fight in field or garrison."

"Has he shown himself here at the camp?"

"No, sir; didn't know he was anywhere around. He and I were never very good friends, sir."

The lieutenant remained silent for several moments, endeavoring to perfect some feasible plan.

"Despatch an orderly to the telegraph-office," he finally commanded, "to inquire if this man Murphy receives any messages there, and if they know where he is stopping. Send an intelligent man, and have him discover all the facts he can. When he returns bring him in to me."

He had enjoyed a bath and a shave, and was yet lingering over his coffee, when the two soldiers entered with their report. The sergeant stepped aside, and the orderly, a tall, boyish-looking fellow with a pugnacious chin, saluted stiffly.

"Well, Bane," and the officer eyed his trim appearance with manifest approval, "what did you succeed in learning?"

"The operator said this yere Murphy hed never bin thar himself, sir, but there wus several messages come fer him. One got here this mornin'."

"What becomes of them?"

"They're called fer by another feller, sir."

"Oh, they are! Who?"

"Red Slavin wus the name he give me of thet other buck."

When the two had disappeared, Brant sat back thinking rapidly. There was a mystery here, and such actions must have a cause. Something either in or about Glencaid was compelling Murphy to keep out of sight—but what? Who? Brant was unable to get it out of his head that all this secrecy centred around Naida. With those incautiously spoken words as a clew, he suspected that Murphy knew something about her, and that knowledge was the cause for his present erratic actions. Perhaps Hampton knew; at least he might possess some additional scrap of information which would help to solve the problem. He looked at his watch, and ordered his horse to be saddled.

It did not seem quite so simple now, this projected interview with Hampton, as it had appeared the night before. In the clear light of day, he began to realize the weakness of his position, the fact that he possessed not the smallest right to speak on behalf of Naida Gillis. He held no relationship whatsoever to her, and should he venture to assume any, it was highly probable the older man would laugh contemptuously in his face. Brant knew better than to believe Hampton would ever let go unless he was obliged to do so; he comprehended the impotence of threats on such a character, as well as his probable indifference to moral obligations. Nevertheless, the die was cast, and perhaps, provided an open quarrel could be avoided, the meeting might result in good to all concerned.

Hampton welcomed him with distant but marked courtesy, having evidently thought out his own immediate plan of action, and schooled himself accordingly. Standing there, the bright light streaming over them from the open windows, they presented two widely contrasting personalities, yet each exhibiting in figure and face the evidences of hard training and iron discipline. Hampton was clothed in black, standing straight as an arrow, his shoulders squared, his head held proudly erect, while his cool gray eyes studied the face of the other as he had been accustomed to survey his opponents at the card-table. Brant looked the picture of a soldier on duty, trim, well built, erect, his resolute blue eyes never flinching from the steady gaze bent upon ham, his bronzed young face grave from the seriousness of his mission. Neither was a man to temporize, to mince words, or to withhold blows; yet each instinctively felt that this was an occasion rather for self-restraint. In both minds the same thought lingered—the vague wonder how much the other knew. The elder man, however, retained the better self-control, and was first to break the silence.

"Miss Gillis informed me of your kindness to her last evening," he said, quietly, "and in her behalf I sincerely thank you. Permit me to offer you a chair."

Brant accepted it, and sat down, feeling the calm tone of proprietorship in the words of the other as if they had been a blow. His face flushed, yet he spoke firmly. "Possibly I misconstrue your meaning," he said, with some bluntness, determined to reach the gist of the matter at once. "Did Miss Gillis authorize you to thank me for these courtesies?"

Hampton smiled with provoking calmness, holding an unlighted cigar between his fingers. "Why, really, as to that I do not remember. I merely mentioned it as expressing the natural gratitude of us both."

"You speak as if you possessed full authority to express her mind as well as your own."

The other bowed gravely, his face impassive. "My words would quite naturally bear some such construction."

The officer hesitated, feeling more doubtful than ever regarding his own position. Chagrined, disarmed, he felt like a prisoner standing bound before his mocking captor. "Then I fear my mission here is useless."

"Entirely so, if you come for the purpose I suspect," said Hampton, sitting erect in his chair, and speaking with more rapid utterance. "To lecture me on morality, and demand my yielding up all influence over this girl,—such a mission is assured of failure. I have listened with some degree of calmness in this room already to one such address, and surrendered to its reasoning. But permit me to say quite plainly, Lieutenant Brant, that you are not the person from whom I will quietly listen to another."

"I had very little expectation that you would."

"You should have had still less, and remained away entirely. However, now that you are here, and the subject broached, it becomes my turn to say something, and to say it clearly. It seems to me you would exhibit far better taste and discrimination if from now on you would cease forcing your attentions upon Miss Gillis."

Brant leaped to his feet, but the other never deigned to alter his position.

"Forcing my attentions!" exclaimed the officer. "God's mercy, man! do you realize what you are saying? I have forced no attentions upon Miss Gillis."

"My reference was rather to future possibilities. Young blood is proverbially hot, and I thought it wise to warn you in time."

Brant stared into that imperturbable face, and somehow the very sight of its calm, inflexible resolve served to clear his own brain. He felt that this cool, self-controlled man was speaking with authority.

"Wait just a moment," he said, at last. "I wish this made perfectly clear, and for all time. I met Miss Gillis first through pure accident. She impressed me strongly then, and I confess I have since grown more deeply interested in her personality. I have reasons to suppose my presence not altogether distasteful to her, and she has certainly shown that she reposed confidence in me. Not until late last night did I even suspect she was the same girl whom we picked up with you out on the desert. It came to me from her own lips and was a total surprise. She revealed her identity in order to justify her proposed clandestine meeting with you."

"And hence you requested this pleasant conference," broke in Hampton, coolly, "to inform me, from your calm eminence of respectability, that I was no fit companion for such a young and innocent person, and to warn me that you were prepared to act as her protector."

Brant slightly inclined his head.

"I may have had something of that nature in my mind."

"Well, Lieutenant Brant," and the older man rose to his feet, his eyes still smiling, "some might be impolite enough to say that it was the conception of a cad, but whatever it was, the tables have unexpectedly turned. Without further reference to my own personal interests in the young lady, which are, however, considerable, there remain other weighty reasons, that I am not at liberty to discuss, which make it simply impossible for you to sustain any relationship to Miss Gillis other than that of ordinary social friendship."

"You—you claim the right—"

"I distinctly claim the right, for the reason that I possess the right, and no one has ever yet known me to relinquish a hold once fairly gained. Lieutenant Brant, if I am any judge of faces you are a fighting man by nature as well as profession, but there is no opportunity for your doing any fighting here. This matter is irrevocably settled—Naida Gillis is not for you."

Brant was breathing hard. "Do you mean to insinuate that there is an understanding, an engagement between you?" he faltered, scarcely knowing how best to resent such utterance.

"You may place your own construction upon what I have said," was the quiet answer. "The special relations existing between Miss Gillis and myself chance to be no business of yours. However, I will consent to say this—I do enjoy a relationship to her that gives me complete authority to say what I have said to you. I regret having been obliged by your persistency to speak with such plainness, but this knowledge should prove sufficient to control the actions of a gentleman."

For a moment the soldier did not answer, his emotions far too strong to permit of calm utterance, his lips tightly shut. He felt utterly defeated. "Your language is sufficiently explicit," he acknowledged, at last. "I ask pardon for my unwarranted intrusion."

At the door he paused and glanced back toward that motionless figure yet standing with one hand grasping the back of the chair.

"Before I go, permit me to ask a single question," he said, frankly. "I was a friend of old Ben Gillis, and he was a friend to my father before me. Have you any reason to suspect that he was not Naida Gillis's father?"

Hampton took one hasty step forward. "What do you mean?" he exclaimed, fiercely, his eyes two coals of fire.

Brant felt that the other's display of irritation gave him an unexpected advantage.

"Nothing that need awaken anger, I am sure. Something caused me to harbor the suspicion, and I naturally supposed you would know about it. Indeed, I wondered if some such knowledge might not account for your very deep interest in keeping her so entirely to yourself."

Hampton's fingers twitched in a nervousness altogether unusual to the man, yet when he spoke his voice was like steel. "Your suspicions are highly interesting, and your cowardly insinuations base. However, if, as I suppose, your purpose is to provoke a quarrel, you will find me quite ready to accommodate you."

An instant they stood thus, eye to eye. Suddenly Brant's memory veered to the girl whose name would be smirched by any blow struck between them, and he forced back the hasty retort burning upon his lips.

"You may be, Mr. Hampton," he said, standing like a statue, his back to the door, "but I am not. As you say, fighting is my trade, yet I have never sought a personal quarrel. Nor is there any cause here, as my only purpose in asking the question was to forewarn you, and her through you, that such a suggestion had been openly made in my hearing. I presume it was a lie, and wished to be able to brand it so."

"By whom?"

"A fellow known as Silent Murphy, a government scout."

"I have heard of him. Where is he?"

"He claimed to be here waiting orders from Custer. He had camp up the Creek two days ago, but is keeping well out of sight for some reason. Telegrams have been received for him at the office but another man has called for them."

"Who?"

"Red Slavin."

"The cur!" said Hampton. "I reckon there is a bad half-hour waiting for those two fellows. What was it that Murphy said?"

"That he knew the girl's real name."

"Was that all?"

"Yes; I tried to discover his meaning, but the fellow became suspicious and shut up like a clam. Is there anything in it?"

Hampton ignored the question. "Lieutenant Brant," he said, "I am glad we have had this talk together, and exceedingly sorry that my duty has compelled me to say what I have said. Some time, however, you will sincerely thank me for it, and rejoice that you escaped so easily. I knew your father once, and I should like now to part on friendly relations with his son."

He held out his hand, and, scarcely knowing why he did so, Brant placed his own within its grasp, and as the eyes of the two men met, there was a consciousness of sympathy between them.



CHAPTER X

A SLIGHT INTERRUPTION

The young officer passed slowly down the dark staircase, his mind still bewildered by the result of the interview. His feelings toward Hampton had been materially changed. He found it impossible to nurse a dislike which seemingly had no real cause for existence. He began besides to comprehend something of the secret of his influence over Naida; even to experience himself the power of that dominating spirit. Out of controversy a feeling of respect had been born.

Yet Brant was far from being satisfied. Little by little he realized that he had gained nothing, learned nothing. Hampton had not even advanced a direct claim; he had dodged the real issue, leaving the soldier in the dark regarding his relationship to Naida, and erecting a barrier between the other two. It was a masterpiece of defence, puzzling, irritating, seemingly impassable. From the consideration of it all, Brant emerged with but one thought clearly defined—whoever she might prove to be, whatever was her present connection with Hampton, he loved this dark-eyed, auburn-haired waif. He knew it now, and never again could he doubt it. The very coming of this man into the field of contest, and his calm assumption of proprietorship and authority, had combined to awaken the slumbering heart of the young officer. From that instant Naida Gillis became to him the one and only woman in all this world. Ay, and he would fight to win her; never confessing defeat until final decision came from her own lips. He paused, half inclined to retrace his steps and have the matter out. He turned just in time to face a dazzling vision of fluffy lace and flossy hair beside him in the dimly lighted hall.

"Oh, Lieutenant Brant!" and the vision clung to his arm tenderly. "It is such a relief to find that you are unhurt. Did—did you kill him?"

Brant stared. "I—I fear I scarcely comprehend, Miss Spencer. I have certainly taken no one's life. What can you mean?"

"Oh, I am so glad; and Naida will be, too. I must go right back and tell the poor girl, for she is nearly distracted. Oh, Lieutenant, is n't it the most romantic situation that ever was? And he is such a mysterious character!"

"To whom do you refer? Really, I am quite in the dark."

"Why, Mr. Hampton, of course. Oh, I know all about it. Naida felt so badly over your meeting this morning that I just compelled her to confide her whole story to me. And didn't you fight at all?"

"Most assuredly not," and Brant's eyes began to exhibit amusement; "indeed, we parted quite friendly."

"I told Naida I thought you would. People don't take such things so seriously nowadays, do they? But Naida is such a child and so full of romantic notions, that she worried terribly about it. Is n't it perfectly delightful what he is going to do for her?"

"I am sure I do not know."

"Why, had n't you heard? He wants to send her East to a boarding-school and give her a fine education. Do you know, Lieutenant, I am simply dying to see him; he is such a perfectly splendid Western character."

"It would afford me pleasure to present you," and the soldier's downcast face brightened with anticipation.

"Do—do you really think it would be proper? But they do things so differently out here, don't they? Oh, I wish you would."

Feeling somewhat doubtful as to what might be the result, Brant knocked upon the door he had just closed, and, in response to the voice within, opened it. Hampton sat upon the chair by the window, but as his eyes caught a glimpse of the returned soldier with a woman standing beside him, he instantly rose to his feet.

"Mr. Hampton," said Brant, "I trust I may be pardoned for again troubling you, but this is Miss Spencer, a great admirer of Western life, who is desirous of making your acquaintance."

Miss Spencer swept gracefully forward, her cheeks flushed, her hand extended. "Oh, Mr. Hampton, I have so wished to meet with you ever since I first read your name in Aunt Lydia's letters—Mrs. Herndon is my aunt, you know,—and all about that awful time you had with those Indians. You see, I am Naida Gillis's most particular friend, and she tells me so much about you. She is such a dear, sweet girl! She felt so badly this morning over your meeting with Lieutenant Brant, fearing you might quarrel! It was such a relief to find him unhurt, but I felt that I must see you also, so as to relieve Naida's mind entirely. I have two special friends, Mr. Moffat and Mr. McNeil,—perhaps you know them?—who have told me so much about these things. But I do think the story of your acquaintance with Naida is the most romantic I ever heard of,—exactly like a play on the stage, and I could never forgive myself if I failed to meet the leading actor. I do not wonder Naida fairly worships you."

"I most certainly appreciate your frankly expressed interest, Miss Spencer," he said, standing with her hand still retained in his, "and am exceedingly glad there is one residing in this community to whom my peculiar merits are apparent. So many are misjudged in this world, that it is quite a relief to realize that even one is appreciative, and the blessing becomes doubled when that one chances to be so very charming a young woman."