singularly--of--er beautiful
creature--one of the--er--first families. (Observing MISS MARY regarding
him amusedly, becomes embarrassed.) That is--er--I mean--er--er--good
morning, Miss Morris! (Passes by schoolhouse door, retreating and
bowing, and picks up flowers from door-step.) Good morning!

Miss Mary. Excuse me, Col. Starbottle (with winning politeness), but
I fear I must rob you of those flowers. I recognize them now as the
offering of one of my pupils. I fear I must revoke my gift (taking
flowers from astonished colonel's hand), all except a single one for
your buttonhole. Have you any choice, or shall I (archly) choose for
you? Then it shall be this. (Begins to place flowers in buttonhole,
COL. STARBOTTLE exhibiting extravagant gratitude in dumb show. Business
prolonged through MISS MARY's speech.) If I am not wrong, colonel, the
gentleman to whom you so kindly pointed out the road this morning was
not a stranger to you. Ah! I am right. There, one moment,--a sprig of
green, a single leaf, would set off the pink nicely. Here he is known
only as "Sandy": you know the absurd habits of this camp. Of course he
has another name. There! (releasing the colonel) it is much prettier
now.

Col. Starbottle. Ged, madam! The rarest exotic--the Victoria Regina--is
not as--er--graceful--er--tribute!

Miss Mary. And yet you refuse to satisfy my curiosity?

Col. Starbottle (with great embarrassment, which at last resolves itself
into increased dignity of manner). What you ask is--er--er--impossible!
You are right: the--er--gentleman you allude to is known to me
under--er--er--another name. But honor--Miss Morris, honor!--seals the
lips of Col. Starbottle. (Aside.) If she should know he was a menial!
No. The position of the man you have challenged, Star, must be equal to
your own. (Aloud.) Anything, Miss Morris, but--er--that!

Miss Mary (smiling). Be it so. Adios, Col. Starbottle.

Col. Starbottle (gallantly). Au revoir, Miss Morris. [Exit,
impressively, L.

Miss Mary. So! Sandy conceals another name, which he withholds from
Red Gulch. Well! Pshaw! What is that to me? The camp is made up of
refugees,--men who perhaps have good reason to hide a name that may
be infamous, the name that would publish a crime. Nonsense! Crime and
Sandy! No, shame and guilt do not hide themselves in those honest but
occasionally somewhat bloodshot eyes. Besides, goodness knows! the poor
fellow's weakness is palpable enough. No, that is not t