ed "lights out." Then they entered the parlor and Grace
had to sing. For the last year she had gloried in singing, her voice
seemed so rich with melody, her heart so rich with joy. To-night all the
strange old feeling came back. It made her think of those wretched days
at Sandy, when with Jack thousands of miles away, perhaps never to see
or speak to her again, she _had_ to sing because her father loved it so.
She was a soldier's daughter, a soldier's wife, and she rallied all her
strength and pride and strove to be blithe and animated and
entertaining. From her first appearance Mrs. Truscott had been a
favorite in that somewhat exacting garrison, perhaps the hardest one in
the army in which to achieve popularity, because of the various cliques
and interests; and now that that very interesting Miss Sanford was with
her, their pretty home on the plain was always a rendezvous for the
socially disposed. And so it happened that all the long evening neither
she nor Jack could obtain release from their duties as entertainers.
Eleven o'clock came before the last of the ladies departed, and then Mr.
Ferris lingered for a _tete-a-tete_ with Miss Sanford, and poor Grace
found herself compelled to sit and talk with Mr. Barnard, who was a
musical devotee and afflicted with a conviction that they ought to sing
duets, and Mrs. Truscott could not be induced to sing duets with any
man, unless Jack would try.

She knew that he had gone to the little library where he kept his
favorite books and did his writing. She heard the door close after him,
and, with unutterable longing, she desired to go and throw herself upon
her favorite perch, his knee, and twine her arms around his neck and
bury her head upon his broad shoulder. She could think of nothing but
that fateful letter from Hays. She wished that it might be Mr. Waring
who had come in, for he was in the cavalry and would know something of
what really was going on out on the frontier. She was feverishly anxious
to learn the truth, and twice directed the talk that way, but Mr.
Barnard was obtuse. He only vaguely knew from remarks he had heard at
mess that General Crook had called for reinforcements, and that Sheridan
was ordering up cavalry and infantry to his support. He did not know
what cavalry,--in fact, he did not care,--he was in the artillery, and,
forgetful of Modoc experiences, believed that Indian fighting was an
abnormal species of warfare of which men of his advanced educatio