the words of love of which his heart was full.

Across the street, in the shadow of a _portal_, an old Indian,
gray-haired and wrinkled, was curiously surveying the Coolidge house.

The heavy, double doors of the _placita_ entrance were open, and as
Lieutenant Wemple strode past he heard a sound from within, a half
suppressed exclamation in a voice that trembled with feeling. It sent
through him a sudden shock, stopped him in mid-step, and swiftly turned
him to the _placita_ door. Barbara, in a white muslin gown, stood under
the honeysuckle arch, her hands full of yellow roses which she had just
been plucking from the bush that glowed behind her. She was looking at
him with soft and glowing eyes, her eager face radiant with love, her
lips still parted by the exclamation which sight of him had forced
through them.

The old Indian under the _portal_ considered him impassively for a moment
and then sauntered across the street.

An instant only the Lieutenant stood looking at her, spellbound by the
beauty and sweetness of the picture, and then he sprang to her side and
gathered her in his arms, forgetful alike of the open doors behind them
and of his duties at the fort. It was only for a moment, and then he
took her hand and led her to Mrs. Coolidge.

But during that moment the Indian with the gray hair and the wrinkled
face stood in front of the _placita_ doors and looked at them with
evident interest. When they went indoors he shut his thin lips close
together, crossed to the other side of the street, and leaned against the
column of a _portal_ while he watched the doors and windows of the