d
spent a great deal of time brushing bay Nellie. She did indeed shine
like a bottle, and her harness, newly oiled and carefully burnished,
glittered as if composed of jet and gold.

"Oh, that's all right; it's a part of my job," he replied, as carelessly
as he could contrive. "I like a good horse"--"and a pretty woman," he
might have added, but he didn't.

Although Anita lingered as if desiring a word or two more, the tall
hostler turned resolutely away and disappeared into the stable.

Bay Nellie, as the one dependable carriage-horse in the outfit of
broncos, had been set aside for the use of Anita and her friends, but
Kelley had orders from Harford to let the mare out whenever the women
did not need her, provided a kindly driver was assured, and so it
happened that the wives of the officers occasionally used her, although
none of them could be called friends or even acquaintances of little
Mrs. Harford.

Kelley observed their distant, if not contemptuous, nods to his
employer's wife as they chanced to meet her on the street, but he said
no word, even when some of the town loafers frankly commented on it. He
owed nothing to Harford. "It's not my job to defend his wife's
reputation." Nevertheless, it made him hot when he heard one of these
loafers remark: "I met the old major the other evening driving along the
river road with Harf's wife. Somebody better warn the major, or there'll
be merry hell and a military funeral one of these days."

"I reckon you're mistaken," said Kelley.

"Not by a whole mile! It was dark, but not so dark but that I could see
who they were. They were in a top buggy, drivin' that slick nag the old
man is so choice about."

"When was it?" asked Kelley.

"Night before last. I met 'em up there just at the bend of the river."

Kelley said no more, for he remembered that Anita had called for the
horse on that date just about sundown, and had driven away alone. She
returned alone about ten--at least, she drove up to the stable door
alone, but he recalled hearing the low tones of a man's voice just
before she called.

It made him sad and angry. He muttered an imprecation against the whole
world of men, himself included. "If I hadn't seen her--if I didn't know
how sweet and kind and pretty she was--I wouldn't mind," he said to
himself. "But to think of a little babe like her--" He checked himself.
"That old cockalorum needs killing. I wonder if I've got to do it?" he
asked in conclusion.