An Apache Princess

For a moment--silence. She was thinking of her duty to her father, of

her implied promise, of all that Janet had told her, and so thinking

could not for the moment answer--could not meet his earnest gaze. Dark

as it was she felt, rather than saw, the glow of his deep blue eyes.

She could not mistake the tenderness of his tone. She had so believed

in him. He seemed so far above the callow, vapid, empty-headed

youngsters the other girls were twittering about from morn till night.

She felt that she believed in him now, no matter what had been said or

who had said it. She felt that if he would but say it was all a

mistake--that no woman had crossed his threshold, all Camp Sandy might

swear to the truth of the story, and she would laugh at it. But how

could she ask such a thing of him? Her cheeks took fire at the

thought. It was he who broke the silence.

"Something has happened to break your faith in me, Miss Angela," said

he, with instant gravity. "I certainly had it--I know I had it--not

a week ago"; and now he had dropped to a seat in the swaying hammock,

and with calm strength and will bent toward her and compelled her

attention. "I have a right to know, as matters stand. Will you tell

me, or must I wait until I see your father?" With that Neil Blakely

actually sought to take her hand. She whipped it behind her at the

instant. "Will you tell me?" he repeated, bending closer.

From down the line, dancing along the wooden veranda, came the sound

of swift footfalls--Kate Sanders hurrying back. Another moment and it

would be too late. The denial she longed to hear from his lips might

never be spoken. If spoken at all it must be here and now, yet how

could she--how could she ask him?

"I will tell you, Mr. Blakely." The words came from the window of the

darkened parlor, close at hand. The voice was that of Janet Wren,

austere and uncompromising. "I got here in time to hear your

question--I will answer for my niece--"

"Aunt Janet--No!"

"Be quiet, Angela. Mr. Blakely, it is because this child's father saw,

and I heard of, that which makes you unworthy the faith of a young,

pure-hearted girl. Who was the--the creature to whom you opened your

door last Wednesday midnight?"

Kate Sanders, singing softly, blithely, came tripping along the

major's deserted veranda, her fresh young voice, glad, yet subdued,

caroling the words of a dear old song that Parepa had made loved and

famous full ten years before: "And as he lingered by her side,

In spite of his comrade's warning

The old, old story was told again

At five o'clock in the morning."