hundred other eyes around the parade-ground Lieutenant Ranson's
attitude suggested that he was explaining to Cahill's daughter what
he wanted for his luncheon. His eyes held her as firmly as though the
palings he clasped were her two hands.

"Mary," he said, and the speaking of her name seemed to stop the
beating of his heart. "Mary," he whispered, as softly as though he
were beginning a prayer, "you're the bravest, the sweetest, the
dearest girl in all the world. And I've known it for months, and now
you must know. And there'll never be any other girl in my life but
you."

Mary Cahill drew away from him in doubt and wonder.

"I didn't mean to tell you just yet," he whispered, "but now that
I've seen you I can't help it. I knew it last night when I stood back
there and watched your windows, and couldn't think of this trouble,
nor of anything else, but just you. And you've got to promise me, if
I get out of this all right--you must--must promise me--"

Mary Cahill's eyes, as she raised them to his, were moist and
glowing. They promised him with a great love and tenderness. But at
the sight Ranson protested wildly.

"No," he whispered, "you mustn't promise--anything. I shouldn't have
asked it. After I'm out of this, after the court-martial, then you've
got to promise that you'll never, never leave me."

Miss Cahill knit her hands together and turned away her head. The
happiness in her heart rose to her throat like a great melody and