. "I've
thought of you so often and--" she was going to add impulsively--"and
dreamed about you, too!" but she remembered the Arab saying which
Ourieda had told her: that when a woman dreams of a man, that is the man
she loves. It was a silly saying, and untrue; yet she kept back the
words in a queer sort of loyalty to Stanton--Stanton, who neither
thought nor dreamed of her.

"I was so thankful when I heard my father had sent for me," she quickly
went on. "I heard about it only through _that letter_--you know the one
I mean."

"Yes, I know," said Max. "I felt they didn't mean to tell you till the
last minute, though I could see no reason why. I--I was more than glad
and proud to be the one to come."

He was not hoping unselfishly that Colonel DeLisle mightn't have told in
his letter how the great march and the expected fight had been
sacrificed for her sake. He was not hoping this, because in his sudden
awakening to love he had forgotten the march. He was thinking of Sanda
and the wild happiness that would turn to pain in memory of being with
her for days in the desert. If, when he reached Sidi-bel-Abbes, he were
blamed for the delay, and punished by losing his stripe, or even by
prison, it would be nothing, or almost a joy, because he would be
suffering for her.

"It was only to-day they gave me father's letter, which you brought,"
Sanda was saying. "It was short, written in a hurry, in answer to one I
sent begging him to take me away. Yet he mentioned one thing: that he
didn't order you, but only asked if you were willing, to come. And he
told me what you answered. I can never thank you, but I do appreciate
it--_all_!"

"It was my selfishness," answered Max. "I said that the colonel was
giving me the Cross of the Legion of Honour. I felt that, then. I feel
it a lot more now." There was more truth in this than he wished her to
guess.

"You are the _realest_ friend!" cried Sanda. "Why, do you know, now I
come to think of it, unless I count my father, you are the only real
friend I have in the world?"

"You forget Mr. Stanton!" Max reminded her, without intending to be
cruel.

She blushed, and Max hated himself as if he had brought the colour to
her face with a blow.

"No," she answered quietly. "I never forget him. But you understand,
because I told you everything, that in my heart I can't call him my
friend. _He_ doesn't care enough, and _I_--care too much."

"Forgive me!" Max begged. "All the same I kn