of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,' eh? Don't spoil her
first remembrances of the first freedom she's known for a couple of
years."

"Well, call it a week, then," moodily replied the love-sick brave,
lighting a candle, and moving toward his room. "I suppose it will take
me a week, anyway, to make up a letter fit to send to such an angel."

The major sighed, put on an easy coat and slippers, and stepped into his
garden.

"Poor Fred!" he muttered to himself, as he paced the walk in front of
the piazza; "can't wait a fortnight, eh? Wonder what he would say if he
knew I'd been waiting for seven or eight years--if he knew I fell in
love with her as easily as he did, and that I've never recovered myself?
Wonder what he'd do if some one were to marry her almost before his very
eyes, as poor Wittleday did while I was longing for her acquaintance?
Wonder what sort of fool he'd call me if he knew that I came to East
Patten, time after time, just for a chance of looking at her--that I
bought Rose Cottage merely to be near her--that I'd kept it all to
myself, and for a couple of years had felt younger at the thought that I
might, perchance, win her after all? Poor Fred! And yet, why shouldn't
she marry him?--women have done stranger things; and he's a great deal
more attractive-looking than an old campaigner like myself. Well, God
bless 'em both, and have mercy on an old coward!"

The major looked toward the Wittleday mansion. The door was open; the
last guests were evidently departing, and their beautiful entertainer
was standing in the doorway, a flood of light throwing into perfect
relief her graceful and tastefully dressed figure. She said something