“And Mrs. Matthew Stevenson.”

“Yes, myself, of course; and then besides, Ellen.”

“Ellen who?”

“Never mind.  She is the most dangerous creature now at large in the Western country.  Avoid her!  Pass not by her!  She stalketh by night.  She’ll get you sure, my son.  She has a string of hearts at her will as long as from here to the red barn.”

“I shall dance to-night,” I said.  “If you please, I will dance with her, the first waltz.”

“Yes?” She raised her eyebrows.  “You’ve a nice conceit, at least.  But, then, I don’t like modest men.”

“Listen to that,” chuckled Stevenson, “and yet she married me!  But what she says is true, Cowles.  It will be worse than Chapultepec in the crowd anywhere around Ellen to-night.  You might lose a leg or an arm in the crush, and if you got through, you’d only lose your heart.  Better leave her alone.”

“Lord, what a night it’ll be for the ball,” said Kitty, sweeping an idle arm toward Parade, which was now filling up with strings of carriages from the city.  We could see men now putting down the dancing floor.  The sun was sinking.  From somewhere came the faint sound of band music, muffled behind the buildings.

“Evening gun!” said Stevenson presently, and we arose and saluted as the jet of smoke burst from a field piece and the roar of the report brought the flag fluttering down.  Then came strains of a regimental band, breaking out into the national air; after which the music slid into a hurrying medley, and presently closed in the sweet refrain of “Robin Adair,” crooning in brass and reeds as though miles away.  Twilight began to fall, and the lamps winked out here and there.  The sound of wheels and hoofs upon the gravel came more often.  Here and there a bird twittered gently in the trees along the walks; and after a time music came again and again, for four bands now were stationed at the four corners of the Parade. (And always the music began of war and deeds, and always it ended in some soft love strain.) Groups gathered now upon the balconies near the marquees which rose upon the Parade.  Couples strolled arm in arm.  The scene spoke little enough of war’s alarms or of life’s battles and its sadness.

A carriage passed with two gentlemen, and drew up at the Officers’ Club.  “Billy Williams, adjutant,” commented Captain Stevenson lazily.  “Who’s the other?”

“Yes, who’s the tall one?” asked Kitty, as the gentlemen descended from the carriage.  “Good figure, anyhow; wonder if he dances.”

“Coming over, I believe,” said Stevenson, for now the two turned our way.  Stevenson rose to greet his fellow officer, and as the latter approached our stoop, I caught a glance at his companion.

It was Gordon Orme!

Orme was as much surprised on his own part.  After the presentations all around he turned to me with Kitty Stevenson.  “My dear Madam,” he said, “you have given me the great pleasure of meeting again my shadow, Mr. Cowles, of Virginia.  There is where I supposed him now, back home in Virginia.”