“Why, good-morning, Captain Chester.  I’m so glad to see you this bright day.  Do come in and let me give you a rose.  Papa will soon be down.”  And she opened the gate and held forth one long, slim hand.  He took it slowly, as though in a dream, raising his forage-cap at the same time, yet making no reply.  He was looking at her far more closely than he imagined.  How fresh, how radiant, how fair and gracious and winning!  Every item of her attire was so pure and white and spotless; every fold and curve of her gown seemed charged with subtile, delicate fragrance, as faint and sweet as the shy and modest wood-violet’s.  She noted his silence and his haggard eyes.  She noted the intent gaze, and the color mounted straightway to her forehead.

“And have you no word of greeting for me?” she blithely laughed, striving to break through the awkwardness of his reserve, “or are you worn out with your night watch as officer of the day?”

He fairly started.  Had she seen him, then?  Did she know it was he who stood beneath her window, he who leaped in chase of that scoundrel, he who stole away with that heavy tell-tale ladder? and, knowing all this, could she stand there smiling in his face, the incarnation of maiden innocence and beauty?  Impossible!  Yet what could she mean?

“How did you know I had so long a vigil?” he asked, and the cold, strained tone, the half-averted eyes, the pallor of his face, all struck her at once.  Instantly her manner changed: 

“Oh, forgive me, captain.  I see you are all worn out; and I’m keeping you here at the gate.  Come to the piazza and sit down.  I’ll tell papa you are here, for I know you want to see him.”  And she tripped lightly away before he could reply, and rustled up the stairs.  He could hear her light tap at the colonel’s door, and her soft, clear, flute-like voice:  “Papa, Captain Chester is here to see you.”

Papa indeed!  She spoke to him and of him as though he were her own.  He treated her as though she were his flesh and blood,—­as though he loved her devotedly.  Even before she came had not they been prepared for this?  Did not Mrs. Maynard tell them that Alice had become enthusiastically devoted to her step-father and considered him the most knightly and chivalric hero she had ever seen?  He could hear the colonel’s hearty and loving tone in reply, and then she came fluttering down again: 

“Papa will be with you in five minutes, captain.  But won’t you let me give you some coffee?  It’s all ready, and you look so tired,—­even ill.”

“I have had a bad night,” he answered, “but I’m growing old, and cannot stand sleeplessness as you young people seem to.”

Was she faltering?  He watched her eagerly, narrowly, almost wonderingly.  Not a trace of confusion, not a sign of fear; and yet had he not seen her, and that other figure?

“I wish you could sleep as I do,” was the prompt reply.  “I was in the land of dreams ten minutes after my head touched the pillow, and mamma made me come home early last night because of our journey to-day.  You know we are going down to visit Aunt Grace, Colonel Maynard’s sister, at Lake Sablon, and mamma wanted me to be looking my freshest and best,” she said, “and I never heard a thing till reveille.”