An Apache Princess

"R-r-robert," began Miss Wren, as the captain unclasped his saber belt

and turned it over to Mickel, his German "striker." She would have

proceeded further, but he held up a warning hand. He had come homeward

angering and ill at ease. Disliking Blakely from the first, a

"ballroom soldier," as he called him, and alienated from him later, he

had heard still further whisperings of the devotions of a chieftain's

daughter at the agency, above all, of the strange infatuation of the

major's wife, and these had warranted, in his opinion, warning words

to his senior subaltern in refusing that gentleman's request to ride

with Angela. "I object to any such attentions--to any meetings

whatsoever," said he, but sooner than give the real reason, added

lamely, "My daughter is too young." Now he thought he saw impending

duty in his sister's somber eyes and poise. He knew it when she began

by rolling her r's--it was so like their childhood's spiritual guide

and mentor, MacTaggart, erstwhile of the "Auld Licht" persuasion, and

a power.

"Wait a bit, Janet," said he. "Mickel, get my horse and tell Sergeant

Strang to send me a mounted orderly." Then, as Mickel dropped the

saber in the open doorway and departed, he turned upon her.

"Where's Angela?" said he, "and what was she doing out after recall?

The stable sergeant says 'twas six when Punch came home."

"R-r-robert, it is of that I wish to speak to you, and before she

comes to dinner. Hush! She's coming now."

Down the row of shaded wooden porticos, at the major's next door, at

Dr. Graham's, the Scotch surgeon and Wren's especial friend and crony,

at the Lynns' and Sanders's beyond, little groups of women and

children in cool evening garb, and officers in white, were gathered in

merry, laughing chat. Nowhere, save in the eyes of one woman at the

commanding officer's, and here at Wren's, seemed there anything

ominous in the absence of this officer so lately come to join them.

The voice of Angela, glad and ringing, fell upon the father's ears in

sudden joy. Who could associate shame or subterfuge with tones so

charged with merriment? The face of Angela, coming suddenly round the

corner from the side veranda, beamed instantly upon him, sweet,

trusting and welcoming, then slowly shadowed at sight of the set

expression about his mouth, and the rigid, uncompromising, determined

sorrow in the features of her aunt.

Before she could utter a word, the father questioned: "Angela, my child, have you seen Mr. Blakely this afternoon?"