looked toward the home of the post-trader, his brain filled with
thoughts of his return to his former life outside the army, the old
life to which he vowed he would not return alone.

The next morning Miss Cahill learned the news when the junior officer
came to mess and explained why Ranson was not with them. Her only
comment was to at once start for his quarters with his breakfast in a
basket. She could have sent it by Pete, but, she argued, when one of
her officers was in trouble that was not the time to turn him over to
the mercies of a servant. No, she assured herself, it was not because
the officer happened to be Ranson. She would have done as much, or as
little, for any one of them. When Curtis and Haines were ill of the
grippe, had she not carried them many good things of her own making?

But it was not an easy sacrifice. As she crossed the parade-ground
she recognized that over-night Ranson's hut, where he was a prisoner
in his own quarters, had become to the post the storm-centre of
interest, and to approach it was to invite the attention of the
garrison. At head-quarters a group of officers turned and looked her
way, there was a flutter among the frocks on Mrs. Bolland's porch,
and the enlisted men, smoking their pipes on the rail of the
barracks, whispered together. When she reached Ranson's hut over four
hundred pairs of eyes were upon her, and her cheeks were flushing.
Ranson came leaping to the gate, and lifted the basket from her arm
as though he were removing an opera-cloak. He set it upon the gate-
post, and nervously clasped the palings of the gate with both hands.
He had not been to bed, but that fact alone could not explain the
strangeness of his manner. Never before had she seen him disconcerted
or abashed.