FROM PEN DRAWINGS

The Black Mare Suddenly Threw Her Head Down and Her Heels Up

“Miss Anita is in there with Mr. Broussard, an’ He got
  on His Courtin’ Breeches, an’ They’s Just as Quiet as
  a Couple of Sleepin’ Babies”

“Never Mind, Dear, Darling Daddy, I Love You Just the Same”

Mrs. McGillicuddy Sat Majestically Upright in the Buggy,
  While the Sergeant Bestrode the Peaceful and Amiable Dot

“Neither You nor Your Child Shall Suffer for the Present”

Kettle Dropped the Reins, and Grasping Corporal
  Around the Neck Hung on Desperately

“Don’t Call Your Father ‘the Poor old Chap,’” Said
  Mrs. Fortescue Positively

BETTY AT FORT BLIZZARD

CHAPTER I

“Miss Betty” In A new role

Colonel John Hope Fortescue, commanding the fine new cavalry post of Fort Blizzard, in the far Northwest, sat in his comfortable office and gazed through the big window at the plaza with its tall flagstaff, from which the splendid regimental flag floated in the crystal cold air of December.  Afar off was a broad plateau for drills, an aviation field, and beyond all, a still, snow-bound world, walled in by jagged peaks of ice.  It seemed to Colonel Fortescue, who was an idealist and at the same time a crack cavalry officer, that the great flag on the giant flagstaff dominated the frozen world around it, and its stars were a part of the firmament.  When the sun rose and the flag was run up, then indeed it was sunrise.  And when the sun descended in majesty, so the flag descended in glory.

As the last pale gleam of splendor touched the flag, the sunset gun cracked out suddenly.  Colonel Fortescue and his right-hand man for twenty years, Sergeant Patrick McGillicuddy, rose to their feet and stood at “attention,” as the flag fell slowly.  Then it was reverently furled, and the color sergeant, with the guard, started toward the Colonel’s quarters, all whom they passed making way for them and saluting the furled colors.

Colonel Fortescue continued to look out of the window, while Sergeant McGillicuddy, getting some belated mail together, passed out of the office entrance of the fine new commandant’s quarters.  Two horsewomen—­Mrs. Fortescue, she who had been Betty Beverley, and her seventeen-year-old Anita—­followed by a trooper as escort, were coming through the main entrance.  Colonel Fortescue’s eyes softened as he watched his wife and daughter, Mrs. Fortescue as slim as when she was Betty Beverley of old in Virginia, and riding as lightly and gracefully as a bird on the wing.