's office, what's her name?--I've forgotten it."

"So have I. Go on!"

"He says she is to be married at Christmas to somebody in Springvale.
You used to like her. Tell me, do you care for her still? You could like
somebody else just as well, couldn't you, Phil?"

I put my hand gently over her hand resting on my arm, and said nothing.

"Could you, Phil? She doesn't want you any more. How long will you care
for her?"

"Till death us do part," I answered, in a low voice.

She dropped my arm, and even in the shadows I could see her eyes flash.

"I hate you," she cried, passionately.

"I don't blame you," I answered like a cold-blooded brute. "But, Rachel,
this is the last time we shall be together. Let's be frank, now. You
don't care for me. It is for the lack of one more scalp to dangle at
your door that you grieve. You want me to do all the caring. You could
forget me before we get home."

Then the tears came, a woman's sure weapon, and I hated myself more than
she hated me.

"I can only wound your feelings, I always make you wretched. Now,
Rachel, let's say good-bye to-night as the best of enemies and the worst
of friends. I haven't made your stay in Kansas happy. You will forget me
and remember only the pleasant people here."

When she bade me good-bye at her aunt's door, there was a harshness in
her voice I had not noted before.

"If she really did care for me she wouldn't change so quickly. By
Heaven, I believe there is something back of all this love-making.
Charming a dog as he is, Phil Baronet in himself hasn't that much
attraction for her," I concluded, and I breathed freer for the thought.
When I came long afterwards to know the truth about her, I understood
this sudden change, as I understood the charming pretensions to
admiration and affection that preceded it.

The next day our command started on its campaign against the unknown
dangers and hardships and suffering of the winter Plains. It was an
imposing cavalcade that rode down the broad avenue of the capital city
that November day when we began our march. Up from Camp Crawford we
passed in regular order, mounted on our splendid horses, riding in
platoon formation. At Fourth Street we swung south on Kansas Avenue. At
the head of the column twenty-one buglers rode abreast, Bud Anderson and
O'mie among them. Our Lieutenant-Colonel, Horace L. Moore, and his staff
followed in order behind the buglers. Then came the cavalry, troop
after troop, a th