what was
said in that relentless paper on her dressing table, and she shrank from
the opening and reading. Sandy's face had told her what to expect.
Sandy's tongue had spoken of slanders--slanders that well she realized,
like curses, had come home to roost. She could not say, even to herself,
that what she had written was never meant for public eyes. She had
hoped--she had meant--it should be published, and that all good
Christian men and women, readers of the _Banner of Light_, should
approve and applaud her righteous efforts in behalf of so great and
glorious a cause. But it had not occurred to her that the _Banner_
would ever find its way to so godless a community as this at
Minneconjou--where her statements might be challenged. She was stunned,
temporarily, by this most unlooked-for catastrophe. Uncle Will and Aunt
Marion had been her best friends and benefactors, and, even though duty
demanded that she should make clear to them how deeply they erred in
their attitude on so vital a question as that of the Canteen, she knew,
and well knew, that what she had written in the enthusiasm of her faith,
the intensity of her zeal, was far from warrantable by the cold facts in
the case. She followed Sandy with her eyes as he neared the
veranda,--saw the hands of the half dozen men go up in salute,--saw him
suddenly turn and, facing west, salute in turn, and then the colonel
marched into her field of vision, and the veteran of the Civil War and
the subaltern of a few skirmishes stood a moment in conference, then
strode away together toward the townward gate and the "auxiliary"
guard-house, the orderly following after.

And then she heard her aunt's voice at her door.

"Have you seen anything of Jimmy this morning, 'Cilla? It's strange he
has not come," and then cook from the kitchen appeared at the landing.
"That young man, mum, Mr. Blenke, would like to speak with Miss Sanford
a minute." And, leaving the papers on her bureau, glad of a respite,
Priscilla hastened down.

Blenke's big mournful brown eyes had of late been darker than ever, and
dark circles had sunk in beneath them. Blenke's sallow face had taken on
an even sallower hue. "Nothing but indigestion and lack of exercise,"
said the junior doctor, of whom Priscilla had made inquiries. "The man
spends his leisure hours moping or mooning around by himself. He ought
to be made to play ball, tennis, spar, ride, wrestle, or something. He's
a day-dreamer--maybe a pipe-dre