oving and tender and
faithful one, who long hours had been waiting, watching, listening for
his step, praying for his safe return, hoping for the promised
confidence. She knew when the phaeton came, though she said naught of it
to her niece. Nearly a mile of the valley road could be seen from
Sandy's window, where she hovered much of the time until the sun went
down. Now she quickly rose and went to him, and with her soft hands on
his temples kissed his forehead, for he bowed his head, and for the
first time in his life his lips dared not even touch her cheek. "I--I'm
about used up, mother," he faltered. "I--can I have some tea? Then I'll
get a warm bath, please, and go to bed. Has--anyone been here for
me--inquired for me?"

The sudden upward look, the anxiety in his tone, might well have warned
her, but there was something she had to know, something that ever since
evening gunfire had been preying on her mind. No. 4's story had spread
by this time all over the post, growing, probably, with each repetition.
There had been a tragic scene of some kind at Major Dwight's shortly
after midnight. Jimmy had prepared her for that much. No. 4 had heard
screams; then lights went flitting to and fro, and there was sound of
scuffling and running about, and the guard had almost arrested someone
who came dashing from the rear gate and was lost in the darkness and the
yards below. No, nobody had come to ask for Sandy! It seemed strange
that so very few of the officers had even passed that way. Everybody had
business at the office, the Club, the barracks, the guard-house; even at
Dwight's there had been a sort of impromptu conference, but nobody had
been there to disturb them in any way--no officers, at least; but Sandy
read the impending truth in his mother's eyes. She was talking
nervously, with hardly a pause, as though she wished him to know all she
knew before he could speak, and, even as Priscilla moved noiselessly
about, brewing his tea and arranging his supper, Marion, the mother,
talked rapidly, wretchedly on.

Yes, there was something. The notebook had been found and brought home.
She would get it for him. It was right there in her desk. Priscilla
handed it, and he almost snatched it from her, swiftly turning the
leaves; then, seizing it by the back, shook it vehemently. A few scraps
and clippings fluttered to the floor, but not the paper he needed.

"Who brought it? How did it come?" he demanded, a world of trouble,
almo