“What?”

“He means it for the best; he fears for me.  I will tell you how it is with me when you come to-night.  I truly desire to tell you—­ I—­ I need to tell you.  Will you come to me?”

“On my honour, Lois.”

“Then—­ if you please, will you leave me now?  I must do my washing and mending—­ and——­” she smiled, “if you only knew how desperately I need what money I may earn.  My garments, Euan, are like to fall from me if these green cockspur thorns give way.”

“But, Lois,” I said, “I have brought you money!” And I fished from any hunting shirt a great, thick packet of those poor paper dollars, now in such contempt that scarce five hundred of them counted for a dozen good, hard shillings.

“What are you doing?” she said, so coldly that I ceased counting the little squares of currency and looked up at her surprised.

“I am sharing my pay with you,” said I.  “I have no silver—­ only these.”

“I can not take—­ money!”

“What?”

“Did you suppose I could?”

“Comrades have a common purse; Why not?”

For a few moments her face wore the same strange expression, then, of a sudden her eyes filled and closed convulsively, and she turned her head, motioning me to leave her.

“Will you not share with me?” I asked, very hot about the ears.

She shook her head and I saw her shoulders heave once or twice.

“Lois,” I said gravely, “did you fear I hoped for some—­ reward?  Child—­ little comrade—­ only the happiness of aiding you is what I ask for.  Share with me then, I beg you.  I am not poor.”

“No—­ I can not, Euan,” she answered in a stifled voice.  “Is there any shame to you in sharing with me?”

“Wait,” she whispered.  “Wait till you hear.  And—­ thank you—­ for—­ your kindness.”

“I will be here to-night,” I said.  “And when we know each other better we will share a common purse.”

She did not answer me.

I lingered for a moment, desiring to reassure and comfort her, but knew not how.  And so, as she did not turn, I finally went away through the sunlit willows, leaving her kneeling there alone beside the golden pool, her bright head drooping and her hands still covering her face.

As I walked back slowly to the fort, I pondered how to be of aid to her; and knew not how.  Had there been the ladies of any officers with the army now, I should have laid her desperate case before them; but all had gone back to Albany before our scout of three returned from Westchester.

Here on the river, within our lines, while the army remained, she would be safe enough from forest peril.  Yet I burned and raged to think of the baser peril ever threatening her among men of her own speech and colour.  I suppose, considering her condition, they had a right to think her that which she was not and never had been.  For honesty and maiden virtue never haunted camps.  Only two kinds of women tramped with regiments—­ the wives of soldiers, and their mistresses.