difficult climb up-hill, his mother’s face swam suddenly before his eyes, and he felt himself going down.  When they brought him to, he heard that the ladies were Mrs. Maynard and her daughter Miss Renwick,—­his own mother, remarried, his own Alice, a grown young woman.  This was, indeed, news to put him in a flutter and spoil his shooting.  He realized at once that the gulf was wider than ever.  How could he go to her now, the wife of a colonel, and he an enlisted man?  Like other soldiers, he forgot that the line of demarcation was one of discipline, not of sympathy.  He did not realize what any soldier among his officers would gladly have told him, that he was most worthy to reveal himself now,—­a non-commissioned officer whose record was an honor to himself and to his regiment, a soldier of whom officers and comrades alike were proud.  He never dreamed—­indeed, how few there are who do!—­that a man of his character, standing, and ability is honored and respected by the very men whom the customs of the service require him to speak with only when spoken to.  He supposed that only as Fred Renwick could he extend his hand to one of their number, whereas it was under his soldier name he won their trust and admiration, and it was as Sergeant McLeod the officers of the ——­th were backing him for a commission that would make him what they deemed him fit to be,—­their equal.  Unable to penetrate the armor of reserve and discipline which separates the officer from the rank and file, he never imagined that the colonel would have been the first to welcome him had he known the truth.  He believed that now his last chance of seeing his mother was gone until that coveted commission was won.  Then came another blow:  the doctor told him that with his heart-trouble he could never pass the physical examination:  he could not hope for preferment, then, and must see her as he was, and see her secretly and alone.  Then came blow after blow.  His shooting had failed, so had that of others of his regiment, and he was ordered to return in charge of the party early on the morrow.  The order reached him late in the evening, and before breakfast-time on the following day he was directed to start with his party for town, thence by rail to his distant post.  That night, in desperation, he made his plan.  Twice before he had strolled down to the post and with yearning eyes had studied every feature of the colonel’s house.  He dared ask no questions of servants or of the men in garrison, but he learned enough to know which rooms were theirs, and he had noted that the windows were always open.  If he could only see their loved faces, kneel and kiss his mother’s hand, pray God to forgive him, he could go away believing that he had undone the spell and revoked the malediction of his early youth.  It was hazardous, but worth the danger.  He could go in peace and sin no more towards mother, at least; and then if she mourned and missed him, could he not find it out some day and make himself known to her after his discharge?  He slipped out of camp, leaving his boots behind, and wearing his light Apache moccasins and flannel shirt and trousers.  Danger to himself he had no great fear of.  If by any chance mother or sister should wake, he had but to stretch forth his hand and say, “It is only I,—­Fred.”  Danger to them he never dreamed of.