ncourage such a move. On
the contrary, he recalled with something akin to bitterness that when
his voice or words betrayed a tendency towards such a lapse, she became
instantly and palpably most conventional.

Now, in the light of all he had heard from various sources, what could
he believe but that she was interested, to say the least, in that other
man? Well and miserably he recalled the words of Farquhar, who had
served some years at the same station with the Rays: "She's the bonniest
little army girl I know, and her head's as level as it is pretty--except
on one point. She's her father's daughter and wrapped up in the army.
She's always said she'd marry only a soldier. But Maidie's getting
wisdom with years, I fancy. Young Foster will be a rich man in spite of
himself, for he'll have his mother's fortune, and he's heels over head
in love with her."

"But I understood," interposed the general, with a quick glance at
Stuyvesant, who had risen as though to get another cigar, "that Ray
didn't exactly approve of him."

"Oh, Ray didn't seem to have any special objection to Foster unless it
was that he neglected his business to lay siege to her. Foster's a
gentleman, has no bad habits, and is the very man nine women out of ten
would rejoice in for a husband, and ninety-nine out of ten, if that were
a mathematical possibility, would delight in as a son-in-law. He isn't
brilliant--buttons would have supplied the lack had he been in the
cavalry. I dare say he'll be ass enough to go in for a commission now
and sell out his ranch for a song. Then, she'd probably take him."

And then, too, as he strolled thoughtfully up the street, still dimly
lighted by the waning moon and dotted at long intervals by tiny electric
fires, Stuyvesant went over in mind other little things that had come to
his ears, for many men were of a mind with regard to Billy Ray's
daughter, and the young officer found himself vaguely weighing the
reasons why he should now cease to play the moth,--why he should be
winging his flight away from the flame and utterly ignoring the fact
that his feet, as though from force of habit, were bearing him steadily
towards it. The snap and ring of a bayoneted rifle coming to the charge,
the stern voice of a sentry at the crossing of the Calle Faura, brought
him to his senses.

"Halt! Who is there?"

"Staff officer, First Division," was the prompt reply, as Stuyvesant
looked up in surprise.

"Advance, staff officer