When Mr. Blakely left the post that afternoon he went afoot. When he

returned, just after the sounding of retreat, he came in saddle.

Purposely he avoided the road that led in front of the long line of

officers' quarters and chose instead the water-wagon track along the

rear. People among the laundresses' quarters, south of the mesa on

which stood the quadrangular inclosure of Camp Sandy, eyed him

curiously as he ambled through on his borrowed pony; but he looked

neither to right nor left and hurried on in obvious discomposure. He

was looking pale and very tired, said the saddler sergeant's wife, an

hour later, when all the garrison was agog with the story of Wren's

mad assault.

He never seemed to see the two or three soldiers, men of

family, who rose and saluted as he passed, and not an officer in the

regiment was more exact or scrupulous in his recognition of such

soldier courtesy as Blakely had ever been. They wondered, therefore,

at his strange abstraction. They wondered more, looking after him,

when, just as his stumbling pony reached the crest, the rider reined

him in and halted short in evident embarrassment. They could not see

what he saw--two young girls in gossamer gowns of white, with arms

entwining each other's waists, their backs toward him, slowly pacing

northward up the mesa and to the right of the road. Some old croquet

arches, balls, and mallets lay scattered about, long since abandoned

to dry rot and disuse, and, so absorbed were the damsels in their

confidential chat,--bubbling over, too, with merry laughter,--they

gave no heed to these until one, the taller of the pair, catching her

slippered foot in the stiff, unyielding wire, plunged forward and

fell, nearly dragging her companion with her. Blakely, who had hung

back, drove his barbless heels into the pony's flanks, sent him

lurching forward, and in less than no time was out of saddle and

aiding her to rise, laughing so hard she, for a moment, could not

speak or thank him.

Save to flowing skirt, there was not the faintest

damage, yet his eyes, his voice, his almost tremulous touch were all

suggestive of deep concern, before, once more mounting, he raised his

broad-brimmed hat and bade them reluctant good-night. Kate Sanders ran

scurrying home an instant later, but Angela's big and shining eyes

followed him every inch of the way until he once more dismounted at

the upper end of the row and, looking back, saw her and waved his hat,

whereat she ran, blushing, smiling, and not a little wondering,

flustered and happy, into the gallery of their own quarters and the

immediate presence of her father. Blakely, meanwhile, had summoned his

servant: "Take this pony at once to Mr. Hart," said he, "and say I'll be back

again as soon as I've seen the commanding officer."




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