“I need not tell you, my dear old friend, how I rejoice with you in your—­hum and haw and this is all about something else,” goes on the colonel, in malignant disregard of the longing looks in the eyes of three women, all of whom are eager to hear the rest of it, and one of whom wouldn’t say so for worlds.  “Write to me often.  Remember me warmly to the ladies of your household.  I fear Miss Alice would despise this wild, open prairie-country; there is no golden-rod here, and I so often see her as—­hum and hum and all that sort of talk of no interest to anybody,” says he, with a quizzical look over his “bows” at the lovely face and form bending forward with forgetful eagerness to hear how “he so often sees her.”  And there is a great bunch of golden-rod in her lap now, and a vivid blush on her cheek.  The colonel is waxing as frivolous as Fred, and quite as great a tease.

And then October comes, and Fred has gone, and the colonel and his household are back at Sibley, where the garrison is enraptured at seeing them, and where the women precipitate themselves upon them in tumultuous welcome.  If Alice cannot quite make up her mind to return the kisses, and shrinks slightly from the rapturous embrace of some of the younger and more impulsive of the sisterhood,—­if Mrs. Maynard is a trifle more distant and stately than was the case before they went away,—­the garrison does not resent it.  The ladies don’t wonder they feel indignant at the way people behaved and talked; and each lady is sure that the behavior and the talk were all somebody else’s; not by any possible chance could it be laid at the door of the speaker.  And Alice is the reigning belle beyond dispute, though there is only subdued gayety at the fort, for the memory of their losses at the Spirit Wolf is still fresh in the minds of the regiment.  But no man alludes to the events of the black August night, no woman is permitted to address either Mrs. Maynard or her daughter on the subject.  There are some who seek to be confidential and who cautiously feel their way for an opening, but the mental sparring is vain:  there is an indefinable something that tells the intruder, “Thus far, and no farther.”  Mrs. Maynard is courteous, cordial, and hospitable, Alice sweet and gracious and sympathetic, even, but confidential never.

And then Captain Armitage, late in the month, comes home on crutches, and his men give him a welcome that makes the rafters ring, and he rejoices in it and thanks them from his heart; but there is a welcome his eyes plead for that would mean to him far more than any other.  How wistfully he studies her face!  How unmistakable is the love and worship in every tone!  How quickly the garrison sees it all, and how mad the garrison is to see whether or not ’tis welcome to her!  But Alice Renwick is no maiden to be lightly won.  The very thought that the garrison had so easily given her over to Jerrold is enough to mantle her cheek with indignant protest.  She accepts his attentions, as she does