and knew it must be the officer of the day starting out to make his
rounds. So too, apparently, did the mysterious prowler in the back-yard.
He stepped quickly out of the enclosure, and the next instant she could
see the erect, soldierly figure moving rapidly away towards the
northwestern entrance of the post, where lay the band's quarters.

CHAPTER XII.

A SERENADE.

"News from Mr. Ray!" exclaimed Mrs. Stannard, as she came in all smiles
and sunshine the morning after the Fourth. "Just think of it, Captain
Truscott! the major says they were all wondering when they could hope to
get letters from home, when who should come trotting into camp but Ray
with a bagful. He found a couple of men at Laramie who had been left
behind when the regiment went through, and the three of them slipped off
together, and by riding all night managed to escape the Indians. Did you
ever know such a reckless fellow?"

Truscott shook his head. "I wish Ray _would_ be more prudent. If there
were any occasion for such a risk 'twould be a different thing----"

"But there _was_" said Mrs. Stannard, promptly. "The commanding officer
at Laramie had received important orders for the --th by telegraph, and
he didn't know how to get them through. No scouts or runners were in.
Ray got there the evening before, and the moment he heard of it he went
right to the colonel and begged to be allowed to go. It seems that
trouble is expected at the agency," she continued. "The major sends just
a few lines to say they expect to leave the Cheyenne valley and go right
in there. The pickets have chased Indians coming from the
northwest,--runners from Sitting Bull, they say,--and the officers do
not like the looks of things."

Truscott's face was very grave but his manner was unchanged. Mrs. Grace
and her friend had risen from the breakfast-table to welcome their
ex-hostess and valued neighbor, and the three ladies looked as though
news from the front brought far more of anxiety than comfort. Before
anything further was said there came a light tap at the door, and Mrs.
Turner fluttered in, bewitchingly pretty in her white muslin, with
bright-colored ribbons. There were ill-natured people who observed at
times of Mrs. Turner that she took far more pains with her dress when
the captain was away on campaign and "the doughboys" were running the
garrison, than she did when her liege lord was at home. Of this we
cannot speak advisedly. Certain it is that on t