amer," hazarded he, in conclusion, with a
queer look at Priscilla, who had flushed indignantly at the insinuation.
Blenke had sorrowfully and virtuously repelled that insinuation the
moment she brought it to his attention, but circumstances had been
combining to make her uneasy about her paragon. If not a "pipe-dreamer,"
Blenke was becoming odd and nervous, queer, and twitchy. To-day he came
with a plea she had never heard him make before. Blenke, who never
drank, gambled, smoked, swore, or otherwise misconducted himself, had
come to tell Miss Sanford in the best of language that he had urgent
need of ten dollars and two days' pass. The pass his captain had signed
on the spot, but he wouldn't stand for the ten dollars. Blenke would
tell Miss Sanford all about it on his return, but now there was not a
moment to lose unless he lose also the train to Rapid City. Would Miss
Sanford help him?

Priscilla had but ten dollars to her name, but swiftly she sped upstairs
to get it. The bugle was sounding the recall from drill as she entered
her little room, unlocked an upper drawer of the dressing-table, and
found the two bills in her slender _portemonnaie_. The batch of official
papers, with the portentous, red ink-lined, third indorsement uppermost,
still stared at her from the prim, white-covered top, and impatiently
she thrust it into the shallow pocket of the summer skirt and hastened
away downstairs. Blenke's eyes were eloquent with subdued sadness,
mystery, and gratitude as he received the money and turned away. The
children out in front on the parade, with shrill shouting and laughter,
had just gone racing away toward the eastward gate, and as their clamor
died in the distance Priscilla's quick ear caught the sound of sobbing
and a piteous wail for help.

Ever sympathetic with those in distress, she hurried through the
hallway, out through the gate and there, crouched at the foot of the
little shade tree at the edge of the parade, with blood streaming
through the clutching fingers from a slashing cut at the edge of the
left eye, was little George Thornton, son of a junior officer of
infantry. Priscilla in an instant was bending over him.

"What is it, Georgie, dear? Oh, how _did_ you get so cruel a hurt?"

Sobs and screams were at first the only answer. Clasping her kerchief to
the wound with her right hand, and leading the little fellow, half
running, with the left, she guided him homeward, where presently a badly
fri