re and never forgot
thereafter--the sweet, laughing, winsome face of Angela Wren, his
captain's only child.

The regiment had marched into Arizona overland, few of the wives and
daughters with it. Angela, motherless since her seventh year, was at
school in the distant East, together with the daughters of the colonel
then commanding the regiment. They were older; were "finishing" that
summer, and had amazed that distinguished officer by demanding to be
allowed to join him with their mother. When they left the school
Angela could stand it no longer. She both telegraphed and wrote,
begging piteously to be permitted to accompany them on the long
journey by way of San Francisco, and so it had finally been settled.
The colonel's household were now at regimental headquarters up at
Prescott, and Angela was quite happy at Camp Sandy. She had been there
barely four weeks when Neil Blakely, pale, fragile-looking, and still
far from strong, went to report for duty at his captain's quarters and
was met at the threshold by his captain's daughter.

Expecting a girl friend, Kate Sanders, from "down the row," she had
rushed to welcome her, and well-nigh precipitated herself upon a
stranger in the natty undress uniform of the cavalry. Her instant
blush was something beautiful to see. Blakely said the proper things
to restore tranquillity; smilingly asked for her father, his captain;
and, while waiting for that warrior to finish shaving and come down to
receive him, was entertained by Miss Wren in the little army parlor.
Looking into her wondrous eyes and happy, blushing face, he forgot
that there was rancor between his troop commander and himself, until
the captain's stiff, unbending greeting reminded him. Thoughtless
people at the post, however, were laughing over the situation a week
thereafter. Neil Blakely, a squire of dames in San Francisco and other
cities when serving on staff duty, a society "swell" and clubman, had
obviously become deeply interested in this blithe young army girl,
without a cent to her name--with nothing but her beauty, native grace,
and sweet, sunshiny nature to commend her. And everyone hitherto had
said Neil Blakely would never marry in the army.

And there was one woman at Sandy who saw the symptoms with jealous and
jaundiced eyes--Clarice, wife of the major then commanding the little
"four-company" garrison. Other women took much to heart the fact that
Major Plume had cordially invited Blakely, on his re