The major and lieutenant were there, of course, and both in uniform, by special request of the hostess. The major, who had met Mrs. Wittleday in city society before her husband's death, and who had maintained a bowing-acquaintance with her during her widowhood, gravely presented the lieutenant to Mrs. Wittleday, made a gallant speech about the debt society owed to her for again condescending to smile upon it, and then presented his respects to the nearest of the several groups of ladies who were gazing invitingly at him.

Then he summoned the lieutenant (whose reluctance to leave Mrs.

Wittleday's side was rendered no less by a bright smile which that lady gave him as he departed), and made him acquainted with ladies of all ages, and of greatly varying personal appearance. The young warrior went through the ordeal with only tolerable composure, and improved his first opportunity to escape and regain the society of the hostess. Two or three moments later, just as Mrs. Wittleday turned aside to speak to stately old Judge Bray, the lieutenant found himself being led rapidly toward the veranda. The company had not yet found its way out of the parlors to any extent, so the major locked the lieutenant's arm in his own, commenced a gentle promenade, and remarked:

"Fred, my boy, you're making an ass of yourself."

"Oh, nonsense, major," answered the young man, with considerable impatience. "I don't want to know all these queer, old-fashioned people; they're worse than a lot of plebes at West Point."

"I don't mean that, Fred, though, if you don't want to make talk, you must make yourself agreeable. But you're too attentive to Mrs.

Wittleday."

"By George," responded the lieutenant, eagerly, "how can I help it?

She's divine!"

"A great many others think so, too, Fred--I do myself--but they don't make it so plagued evident on short acquaintance. Behave yourself, now--your eyesight is good--sit down and play the agreeable to some old lady, and look at Mrs. Wittleday across the room, as often as you like."

The lieutenant was young; his face was not under good control, and he had no whiskers, and very little mustache to hide it, so, although he obeyed the order of his superior, it was with a visage so mournful that the major imagined, when once or twice he caught Mrs. Wittleday's eye, that that handsome lady was suffering from restrained laughter.

Humorous as the affair had seemed to the major before, he could not endure to have his preserver's sorrow the cause of merriment in any one else; so, deputing Parson Fisher to make their excuse to the hostess when it became possible to penetrate the crowd which had slowly surrounded her, the major took his friend's arm and returned to the cottage.

"Major!" exclaimed the subaltern, "I--I half wish I'd let that Indian catch you; then you wouldn't have spoiled the pleasantest evening I ever had--ever _began_ to have, I should say."

"You wouldn't have had an evening at East Patten then, Fred," said the major, with a laugh, as he passed the cigars, and lit one himself.

"Seriously, my boy, you must be more careful. You came here to spend a pleasant three months with me, and the first time you're in society you act, to a lady you never saw before, too, in such a way, that if it had been any one but a lady of experience, she would have imagined you in love with her."

"I _am_ in love with her," declared the young man, with a look which was intended to be defiant, but which was noticeably shamedfaced. "I'm going to tell her so, too--that is, I'm going to write her about it."

"Steady, Fred--steady!" urged the major, kindly. "She'd be more provoked than pleased. Don't you suppose fifty men have worshiped her at first sight? They have, and she knows it, too--but it hasn't troubled her mind at all: handsome women know they turn men's heads in that way, and they generally respect the men who are sensible enough to hold their tongues about it, at least until there's acquaintance enough between them to justify a little confidence."

"Major," said poor Fred, very meekly, almost piteously, "don't--don't you suppose I _could_ make her care something for me?"

The major looked thoughtfully, and then tenderly, at the cigar he held between his fingers. Finally he said, very gently:

"My dear boy, perhaps you could. Would it be fair, though? Love in earnest means marriage. Would you torment a poor woman, who's lost one husband, into wondering three-quarters of the time whether the scalp of another isn't in the hands of some villainous Apache?"

The unhappy lieutenant hid his face in heavy clouds of tobacco smoke.

"Well," said he, springing to his feet, and pacing the floor like a caged animal, "I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll write her, and throw my heart at her feet. Of course she won't care. It's just as you say. Why should she? But I'll do it, and then I'll go back to the regiment. I hate to spoil _your_ fun, major, if it's any fun to you to have such a fool in your quarters; but the fact is, the enemy's too much for me. I wouldn't feel worse if I was facing a division. I'll write her to morrow. I'd rather be refused by her than loved by any other woman."

"Put it off a fortnight, Fred," suggested the major; "it's the polite thing to call within a week after this party; you'll have a chance then to become better acquainted with her. She's delightful company, I'm told. Perhaps you'll make up your mind it's better to enjoy her society, during our leave, than to throw away everything in a forlorn hope. Wait a fortnight, that's a sensible youth."

"I can't, major!" cried the excited boy. "Hang it! you're an old soldier--don't you know how infernally uncomfortable it is to stand still and be shot at?"

"I _do_, my boy," said the major, with considerable emphasis, and a far-away look at nothing in particular.

"Well, that'll be my fix as long as I stay here and keep quiet," replied the lieutenant.

"Wait a week, then," persisted the major. "You don't want to be 'guilty 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 laughingly to the departing guests; it seemed exquisite music to the major. Then the door closed, and the major, with a groan, retired within his own door, and sorrowfully consumed many cigars.

The week that followed was a very dismal one to the major. He petted his garden as usual, and whistled softly to himself, as was his constant habit, but he insanely pinched the buds off the flowering plants, and his whistling--sometimes plaintive, sometimes hopeless, sometimes wrathful, sometimes vindictive in expression--was restricted to the execution of dead-marches alone. He jeopardized his queen so often at chess that Parson Fisher deemed it only honorable to call the major's attention to his misplays, and to allow him to correct them.

The saddler post-master noticed that the major--usually a most accomplished smoker--now consumed a great many matches in relighting each pipe that he filled. Only once during the week did he chance to meet Mrs. Wittleday, and then the look which accompanied his bow and raised hat was so solemn, that his fair neighbor was unusually sober herself for a few moments, while she wondered whether she could in any way have given the major offense.

As for the lieutenant, he sat at the major's desk for many sorrowful hours each day, the general result being a large number of closely written and finely torn scraps in the waste-basket. Then coatless, collarless, with open vest and hair disarranged in the manner traditional among love-sick youths, he would pour mournful airs from a flute.

The major complained--rather frequently for a man who had spent years on the Plains--of drafts from the front windows, which windows he finally kept closed most of the time, thus saving Mrs. Wittleday the annoyance which would certainly have resulted from the noise made by the earnest but unskilled amateur.

For the major himself, however, neither windows nor doors could afford relief; and when, one day, the sergeant accidentally overturned a heavy table, which fell upon the flute and crushed it, the major enjoyed the only happy moments that were his during the week.

The week drew very near its close. The major had, with a heavy but desperate heart, told stories, sung songs, brought up tactical points for discussion--he even waxed enthusiastic in favor of a run through Europe, he, of course, to bear all the expenses; but the subaltern remained faithful and obdurate.

Finally, the morning of the last day arrived, and the lieutenant, to the major's surprise and delight, appeared at the table with a very resigned air.

"Major," said he, "I wouldn't mention it under any other circumstances, but--I saved your life once?"

"You did, my boy. God bless you!" responded the major, promptly.

"Well, now I want to ask a favor on the strength of that act. I'll never ask another. It's no use for me to try to write to her--the harder I try the more contemptible my words appear. Now, what I ask, is this: _you_ write me a rough draft of what's fit to send to such an incomparable being, and I'll copy it and send it over. I don't expect any answer--all I want to do is to throw myself away on her, but I want to do it handsomely, and--hang it, I don't know how. Write just as if you were doing it for yourself. Will you do it?"

The major tried to wash his heart out of his throat with a sip of coffee, and succeeded but partially; yet the appealing look of his favorite, added to the unconscious pathos of his tone, restored to him his self-command, and he replied:

"I'll do it, Fred, right away."

"Don't spoil your breakfast for it; any time this morning will do," said the lieutenant, as the major arose from the table. But the veteran needed an excuse for leaving his breakfast untouched, and he rather abruptly stepped upon, the piazza and indulged in a thoughtful promenade.

"Write just as if you were doing it for yourself."

The young man's words rang constantly in his ears, and before the major had thought many moments, he determined to do exactly what he was asked to do.

This silly performance of the lieutenant's would, of course, put an end to the acquaintanceship of the major and Mrs. Wittleday, unless that lady were most unusually gracious. Why should he not say to her, over the subaltern's name, all that he had for years been hoping for an opportunity to say? No matter that she would not imagine who was the real author of the letter--it would still be an unspeakable comfort to write the words and know that her eyes would read them--that her heart would perhaps--probably, in fact--pity the writer.

The major seated himself, wrote, erased, interlined, rewrote, and finally handed to the lieutenant a sheet of letter-paper, of which nearly a page was covered with the major's very characteristic chirography.

"By gracious, major!" exclaimed the lieutenant, his face having lightened perceptibly during the perusal of the letter, "that's magnificent! I declare, it puts hope into me; and yet, confound it, it's plaguy like marching under some one else's colors."

"Never mind, my boy, copy it, sign it, and send it over, and don't hope too much."

The romantic young brave copied the letter carefully, line for line; he spoilt several envelopes in addressing one to suit him, and then dispatched the missive by the major's servant, laying the rough draft away for future (and probably sorrowful) perusal.