In fact, the colonel himself had been worrying a little over it.  As Fred Renwick, the tall distinguished young man in civilian costume, he would be welcome anywhere; but, though his garb was that of the sovereign citizen so long as his furlough lasted, there were but two weeks more of it left, and officially he was nothing more nor less than Sergeant McLeod, Troop B, ——­th Cavalry, and there was no precedent for a colonel’s entertaining as an honored guest and social equal one of the enlisted men of the army.  He rather hoped that Fred would yield to his mother’s entreaties and apply for a discharge.  His wound and the latent trouble with his heart would probably render it an easy matter to obtain; and yet he was ashamed of himself for the feeling.

Then there was Alice.  It was hardly to be supposed that so very high bred a young woman would relish the idea of being seen around Fort Sibley on the arm of her brother the sergeant; but, wonderful to relate, Miss Alice took a radically different view of the whole situation.  So far from wishing Fred out of the army, she importuned him day after day until he got out his best uniform, with its resplendent chevrons and stripes of vivid yellow, and the yellow helmet-cords, though they were but humble worsted, and when he came forth in that dress, with the bronze medal on his left breast and the sharpshooter’s silver cross, his tall athletic figure showing to such advantage, his dark, Southern, manly features so enhanced by contrast with his yellow facings, she clapped her hands with a cry of delight and sprang into his one available arm and threw her own about his neck and kissed him again and again.  Even mamma had to admit he looked astonishingly well; but Alice declared she would never thereafter be reconciled to seeing him in anything but a cavalry uniform.  The colonel found her not at all of her mother’s way of thinking.  She saw no reason why Fred should leave the service.  Other sergeants had won their commissions every year:  why not he?  Even if it were some time in coming, was there shame or degradation in being a cavalry sergeant?  Not a bit of it!  Fred himself was loath to quit.  He was getting a little homesick, too,—­homesick for the boundless life and space and air of the broad frontier,—­homesick for the rapid movement and vigorous hours in the saddle and on the scout.  His arm was healing, and such a delight of a letter had come from his captain, telling him that the adjutant had just been to see him about the new staff of the regiment.  The gallant sergeant-major, a young Prussian of marked ability, had been killed early in the campaign; the vacancy must soon be filled, and the colonel and the adjutant both thought at once of Sergeant McLeod.  “I won’t stand in your way, sergeant,” wrote his troop commander, “but you know that old Ryan is to be discharged at the end of his sixth enlistment the 10th of next month; there is no man I would sooner see in his place as first sergeant of my troop than yourself, and I hate to lose you; but, as it will be for the gain and the good of the whole regiment, you ought to accept the adjutant’s offer.  All the men rejoice to hear you are recovering so fast, and all will be glad to see Sergeant McLeod back again.”