among the dancers--these few, wordless,
at the windows. Then, with the Lorelei melody lingering to the last,
the sweet, sad music died away and the waltz was ended. People began to
move toward the doorway. "They're going for their bite and sup," said
Mrs. Crook. "See, there go the bandsmen. Shall--_we_?"

"I think not, if you don't mind," said Mrs. Archer with anxious glance
at the other window, where Lilian still stood, looking straight at the
doorway through which that couple had led and so many now were
following. She had neither spoken nor moved, nor had he, her father.
His back was toward them, but from the very pose of his head the wife
well knew his eyes were fixed upon the face of his beloved child, with
who can say what depth of sorrow, sympathy, yearning for her--with what
passion of wrath and resentment for him. "Come," said Mrs. Crook
briefly, for she, too, saw. Then Archer gently laid his hand upon the
slender fingers that seemed clinching his arm, and with sudden little
gasp or sob, and shiver, Lilian whirled upon him, her eyes big and dry
and glittering. "Oh! wasn't it--didn't they dance--beautifully?" she
cried, as he ground his teeth and turned to lead her away.

And just at that instant--just as such things _will_ happen, who should
come chirruping round the corner but the chaplain and his wife, with
Mrs. Chief Quartermaster and a guest from Camp Sandy, just in time to
stumble upon Mrs. Crook and Mrs. Archer vainly striving to dodge and
get home. It was too late. They were captured, surrounded, pounced
upon. "Oh, _when_ did you come?" "Oh, _how_ did you get here?" "Oh,
_where_ is Lilian?" etc., etc., and Archer, never hesitating, quick was
he in action ever, instantly turned about. "This way, sweetheart," he
murmured, in the fond father love that welled from his great heart. A
few strides carried them back into the darkness, around by the westward
end, where the clamor of voices and clatter of cups and plates at the
supper room drowned other sounds, and then in the darkness he led his
darling, voiceless still, across the little wooden bridge and up the
gentle slope among the cedars, hoping by a wide detour to dodge these
importunates and lead his child to her own room, and there mount guard
over her until the mother came. There is a sorrow that passeth
understanding, and is known not of all men--the mute, helpless,
impotent sorrow of the father who feels the heartache, and sees the
suffering of a belo