There was no one to call, no one to assist.  She hesitated one minute, looked anxiously around, then sprang to the gate, picked up the cap, pulled it well down over the bandaged eyes, seized the young officer firmly by the arm, drew him within the gate, and led him to the shelter of the piazza.  Once out of the fury of the gale, she could hear his question, “Did you get it all, Sam?”

“Not yet,” she answered.  Oh, how she longed for a deep contralto!  “He is coming.  He will be here in a moment.”

“I am so sorry to have been a trouble to you,” he began again, vaguely.

“You are no trouble to me.  I’m glad I was where I happened to see you and could help.”

He spoke no more for a minute.  She stood gazing at all that was visible of the pale face below the darkened eyes.  It was so clear-cut, so refined in feature, and the lips under the sweeping blonde moustache, though set and compressed, were delicate and pink.  He turned his head eagerly towards the parade; but Sam was still far away.  The music had scattered, and was leading him a lively dance.

“Isn’t my servant coming?” he asked, constrainedly.  “I fear I’m keeping you.  Please do not wait.  He will find me here.  You were going somewhere.”

“No,—­unless it was here.”  She was trembling now.  “Please be patient, Mr.—­Mr. Hayne.  Sam may be a minute or two yet, and here you are out of the wind.”

Again she looked in his face.  He was listening eagerly to her words, as though striving to “place” her voice. Could she be mistaken?  Was he, too, not trembling?  Beyond all doubt his lips were quivering now.

“May I not know who it is that led me here?” he asked, gently.

She hesitated, hardly knowing how to tell him.

“Try and guess,” she laughed, nervously.  “But you couldn’t.  You do not know my name.  It is my good fortune, Mr. Hayne.  You—­you saved my kitten; I—­your cap.”

There was no mistaking his start.  Beyond doubt he had winced as though stung, and was now striving to grope his way to the railing.  She divined his purpose in an instant, and her slender hand was laid pleadingly yet firmly on his arm.

“Mr. Hayne, don’t go.  Don’t think of going.  Stay here until Sam comes.  He’s coming now,” she faltered.

“Is this Captain Rayner’s house?” he asked, hoarse and low.

“No matter whose it is!  I welcome you here.  You shall not go,” she cried, impulsively, and both little hands were tagging at his arm.  He had found the railing, and was pulling himself towards the gate, but her words, her clinging hands, were too persuasive.

“I cannot realize this,” he said.  “I do not understand—­”

“Do not try to understand it, Mr. Hayne.  If I am only a girl, I have a right to think for myself.  My father was a soldier,—­I am Nellie Travers,—­and if he were alive I know well he would have had me do just what I have done this night.  Now won’t you stay?”