Fred, very meekly, almost piteously, "don't--don't
you suppose I _could_ make her care something for me?"

The major looked thoughtfully, and then tenderly, at the cigar he held
between his fingers. Finally he said, very gently:

"My dear boy, perhaps you could. Would it be fair, though? Love in
earnest means marriage. Would you torment a poor woman, who's lost one
husband, into wondering three-quarters of the time whether the scalp of
another isn't in the hands of some villainous Apache?"

The unhappy lieutenant hid his face in heavy clouds of tobacco smoke.

"Well," said he, springing to his feet, and pacing the floor like a
caged animal, "I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll write her, and throw my
heart at her feet. Of course she won't care. It's just as you say. Why
should she? But I'll do it, and then I'll go back to the regiment. I
hate to spoil _your_ fun, major, if it's any fun to you to have such a
fool in your quarters; but the fact is, the enemy's too much for me. I
wouldn't feel worse if I was facing a division. I'll write her to
morrow. I'd rather be refused by her than loved by any other woman."

"Put it off a fortnight, Fred," suggested the major; "it's the polite
thing to call within a week after this party; you'll have a chance then
to become better acquainted with her. She's delightful company, I'm
told. Perhaps you'll make up your mind it's better to enjoy her society,
during our leave, than to throw away everything in a forlorn hope. Wait
a fortnight, that's a sensible youth."

"I can't, major!" cried the excited boy. "Hang it! you're an old
soldier--don't you know how infernally uncomfortable it is to stand
still and be shot at?"

"I _do_, my boy," said the major, with considerable emphasis, and a
far-away look at nothing in particular.

"Well, that'll be my fix as long as I stay here and keep quiet," replied
the lieutenant.

"Wait a week, then," persisted the major. "You don't want to be 'guilty
of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,' eh? Don't spoil her
first remembrances of the first freedom she's known for a couple of
years."

"Well, call it a week, then," moodily replied the love-sick brave,
lighting a candle, and moving toward his room. "I suppose it will take
me a week, anyway, to make up a letter fit to send to such an angel."

The major sighed, put on an easy coat and slippers, and stepped into his
garden.

"Poor Fred!" he muttered to himself, as he paced the walk in f