“Kate, I do not recognize your right to overhaul my desk or supervise my correspondence.”

“Understand this first, Cornelia,” said Mrs. Rayner, who hated the baptismal name as much as did her sister, and used it only when she desired to be especially and desperately impressive:  “I found it by accident.  I never dreamed of such a possibility as this.  I never, even after what I have seen and heard, could have believed you guilty of this; but, now that I have found it, I have the right to ask, what are its contents?”

“I decline to tell you.”

“Do you deny my right to inquire?”

“I will not discuss that question now.  The other is far graver.  I will not tell you, Kate, except this:  there is no word there that an engaged girl should not write.”

“Of that I mean to satisfy myself, or rather—­”

“You will not open it, Kate.  No!  Put that letter down!  You have never known me to prevaricate in the faintest degree, and you have no excuse for doubting.  I will furnish a copy of that for Mr. Van Antwerp at any time; but you cannot see it.”

“You still persist in your wicked and unnatural intimacy with that man, even after all that I have told you.  Now for the last time hear me:  I have striven not to tell you this; I have striven not to sully your thoughts by such a revelation; but, since nothing else will check you, tell it I must, and what I tell you my husband told me in sacred confidence, though soon enough it will be a scandal to the whole garrison.”

And when darkness settled down on Fort Warrener that starlit April evening and the first warm breeze from the south came sighing about the casements and one by one the lights appeared along officers’ row, there was no light in Nellie Travers’s window.  The little note lay in ashes on the hearth, and she, with burning, shame-stricken cheeks, with a black, scorching, gnawing pain at her heart, was hiding her face in her pillow.

And yet it was a jolly evening, after all,—­that is, for some hours and for some people.  As Mrs. Rayner and her sister were so soon to go, probably by the morrow’s train if their section could be secured, the garrison had decided to have an informal dance as a suitable farewell.  Their announcement of impending departure had come so suddenly and unexpectedly that there was no time to prepare anything elaborate, such as a german with favors, etc.; but good music and an extemporized supper could be had without trouble.  The colonel’s wife and most of the cavalry ladies, on consultation, had decided that it was the very thing to do, and the young officers took hold with a will:  they were always ready for a dance.  Now that Mrs. Rayner was really going, the quarrel should be ignored, and the ladies would all be as pleasant to her as though nothing had happened,—­provided, of course, she dropped her absurd airs of injured womanhood and behaved with courtesy.  The colonel had had a brief talk with