But his daughter in her sympathy continued. "He was holding it so,"
she said, "and it went off, and the bullet passed through here." She
laid the tip of a slim white finger on the palm of her right hand.

"The bullet!" cried Ranson. He repeated, dully, "The bullet!"

There was a sudden, tense silence. Outside they could hear the crunch
of the sentry's heel in the gravel, and from the baseball field back
of the barracks the soft spring air was rent with the jubilant crack
of the bat as it drove the ball. Afterward Ranson remembered that
while one half of his brain was terribly acute to the moment, the
other was wondering whether the runner had made his base. It seemed
an interminable time before Ranson raised his eyes from Miss Cahill's
palm to her father's face. What he read in them caused Cahill to drop
his hand swiftly to his hip.

Ranson saw the gesture and threw out both his hands. He gave a
hysterical laugh, strangely boyish and immature, and ran to place
himself between Cahill and the door. "Drop it!" he whispered. "My
God, man!" he entreated, "don't make a fool of yourself. Mr. Cahill,"
he cried aloud, "you can't go till you know. Can he, Mary? Yes,
Mary." The tone in which he repeated the name was proprietary and
commanding. He took her hand. "Mr. Cahill," he said, joyously, "we've
got something to tell you. I want you to understand that in spite of
all I'VE done--I say in spite of all I'VE done--I mean getting into
this trouble and disgrace, and all that--I've dared to ask your
daughter to marry me." He turned and led Miss Cahill swiftly toward
the veranda. "Oh, I knew he wouldn't like it," he cried. "You see. I
told you so. You've got to let me talk to him alone. You go outside
and wait. I can talk better when you are not here. I'll soon bring