An Apache Princess

But there by Mullins's bed, all unabashed at Janet's marked

disapprobation, sat Norah Shaughnessy. There, in flannel shirt and

trooper trousers and bandanna neckerchief, pale, but collected, stood

the objectionable Mr. Blakely. He was bending over, saying something

to Mullins, as she halted in the open doorway, and Blakely, looking

quickly up, went with much civility to greet and escort her within. To

his courteous, "Good-evening, Miss Wren, may I relieve you of your

basket?" she returned prompt negative and, honoring him with no

further notice, stood and gazed with Miss Shaughnessy at the

focus--Miss Shaughnessy who, after one brief glance, turned a broad

Irish back on the intruder at the doorway and resumed her murmuring to

Mullins.

"Is the doctor here--or Steward Griffin?" spoke the lady, to the room

at large, looking beyond the lieutenant and toward the single soldier

attendant present.

"The doctor and the steward are both at home just now, Miss Wren,"

said Blakely. "May I offer you a chair?"

Miss Wren preferred to stand.

"I wish to speak with Steward Griffin," said she again. "Can you go

for him?" this time obviously limiting her language to the attendant

himself, and carefully excluding Mr. Blakely from the field of her

recognition. The attendant dumbly shook his head. So Aunt Janet tried

again.

"Norah, you know where the steward lives, will you--" But Blakely

saw rebellion awake again in Ireland and interposed.

"The steward shall be here at once, Miss Wren," said he, and tiptoed

away. The lady's doubtful eye turned and followed him a moment, then

slowly she permitted herself to enter. Griffin, heading for the

dispensary at the moment and apprised of her visit, came hurrying in.

Blakely, pondering over the few words Mullins had faintly spoken,

walked slowly over toward the line. His talk with Graham had in a

measure stilled the spirit of rancor that had possessed him earlier in

the day. Graham, at least, was stanch and steadfast, not a weathercock

like Cutler. Graham had given him soothing medicine and advised his

strolling a while in the open air--he had slept so much of the

stifling afternoon--and now, hearing the sound of women's voices on

the dark veranda nearest him, he veered to the left, passed around the

blackened ruin of his own quarters and down along the rear of the line

just as the musician of the guard was sounding "Lights Out"--"Taps."

And then a sudden thought occurred to him. Sentries began challenging

at taps. He was close to the post of No. 5. He could even see the

shadowy form of the sentry slowly pacing toward him, and here he stood

in the garb of a private soldier instead of his official dress. It

caused him quickly to veer again, to turn to his right, the west, and

to enter the open space between the now deserted quarters of the

permanent commander and those of Captain Wren adjoining them to the

north. Another moment and he stopped short. Girlish voices, low and

murmurous, fell upon his ear. In a moment he had recognized them. "It

won't take me two minutes, Angela. I'll go and get it now," were the

first words distinctly heard, and, with a rustle of skirts, Kate

Sanders bounded lightly from the piazza to the sands and disappeared

around the corner of the major's quarters, going in the direction of

her home. For the first time in many eventful days Blakely stood

almost within touch of the girl whose little note was even then

nestling in an inner pocket, and they were alone.