An Apache Princess

"Miss Angela!"

Gently he spoke her name, but the effect was startling. She had been

reclining in a hammock, and at sound of his voice struggled suddenly

to a sitting posture, a low cry on her lips. In some strange way, in

the darkness, the fright, confusion,--whatever it may have been,--she

lost her balance and her seat. The hammock whirled from under her, and

with exasperating thump, unharmed but wrathful, the girl was tumbled

to the resounding floor. Blakely sprang to her aid, but she was up in

the split of a second, scorning, or not seeing, his eager,

outstretched hand.

"My--Miss Angela!" he began, all anxiety and distress, "I hope you're

not hurt," and the outstretched hands were trembling.

"I know I'm not," was the uncompromising reply, "not in the least;

startled--that's all! Gentlemen don't usually come upon one that

way--in the dark." She was panting a bit, but striving bravely,

angrily, to be calm and cool--icy cool.

"Nor would I have come that way," then, stupidly, "had I known you

were--here. Forgive me."

How could she, after that? She had no wish to see him, so she had

schooled herself. She would decline to see him, were he to ask for her

at the door; but, not for an instant did she wish to hear that he did

not wish to see her, yet he had haplessly, brusquely said he wouldn't

have come had he known she was there. It was her duty to leave him,

instantly. It was her desire first to punish him.

"My aunt is not at home," she began, the frost of the Sierras in her

tone.

"I just left her, a moment ago, at the hospital," said he, steadfastly

ignoring her repellent tone. Indeed, if anything, the tone rejoiced

him, for it told a tale she would not have told for realms and

empires. He was ten years older and had lived. "But--forgive me," he

went on, "you are trembling, Miss Angela." She was, and loathed

herself, and promptly denied it. He gravely placed a chair. "You fell

heavily, and it must have jarred you. Please sit down," and stepping

to the olla, "let me bring you some water."

She was weak. Her knees, her hands, were shaking as they never shook

before. He had seen her aunt at the hospital. He had left her aunt

there without a moment's delay that he might hasten to see her,

Angela. He was here and bending over her, with brimming gourd of cool

spring water. Nay, more, with one hand he pressed it to her lips, with

the other he held his handkerchief so that the drops might not fall

upon her gown. He was bending over her, so close she could hear, she

thought, the swift beating of his heart. She knew that if what Aunt

Janet had told, and her father had seen, of him were true, she would

rather die than suffer a touch of his hand. Yet one hand had touched

her, gently, yet firmly, as he helped her to the chair, and the touch

she loathed was sweet to her in spite of herself. From the moment of

their first meeting this man had done what no other man had done

before--spoken to her and treated her as a grown woman, with a man's

admiration in his fine blue eyes, with deference in word and chivalric

grace in manner. And in spite of the mean things whispered about

him--about him and--anybody, she had felt her young heart going out to

him, her buoyant, joyous, healthful nature opening and expanding in

the sunshine of his presence. And now he had come to seek her, after

all the peril and excitement and trouble he had undergone, and now,

all loverlike tenderness and concern, was bending over her and

murmuring to her, his deep voice almost as tremulous as her hand. Oh,

it couldn't be true that he--cared for--was interested in--that woman,

the major's wife! Not that she ought to care one way or another,

except that it was so despicable--so unlike him. Yet she had promised

herself--had virtually promised her father--that she would hold far

aloof from this man, and here he stood, so close that their

heart-beats almost intermingled, and he was telling her that he wished

she had kept and never returned the little butterfly net, for now,

when it had won a value it never before had known, it was his fate to

lose it. "And now," he said, "I hope to be sent to-morrow to join your

father in the field, and I wish to tell you that, whenever I go, I

shall first come to see what you may have to send to him. Will you--be

here, Miss Angela?"