blazes.
She never said a word, and left soon after. Ever hear of her again,
Julie?"

"No," said she, looking more innocent than ever, Peter thought; "but I
expect she's made good somewhere. She must have had something in her or
she'd have kicked up a row."

Miss Melville was laughing silently. "You innocent babe unborn," she
said; "never shall I forget how you held...."

"Come on, Captain Graham," said Julie, getting up; "you've got to see me
home, and I want a nice walk by the sea-front."

They went out together, and stood at the hotel door in the little street.
There was a bit of a moon, with clouds scurrying by, and when it shone
the road was damp and glistening in the moonlight. "What a heavenly
night!" said Julie. "Come on with us along the sea-front, Teanie--do!"

Miss Melville smiled up at them. "I reckon you'd prefer to be alone," she
said.

Peter glanced at Julie, and then protested. "No," he said; "do come on,"
and Julie rewarded him with a smile.

So they set out together. On the front the wind was higher, lashing the
waves, and the moonlight shone fitfully on the distant cliffs, the
harbour mouth, and the sea. The two girls clung together, and as Peter
walked by Julie she took his arm. Conversation was difficult as they
battled their way along the promenade. There was hardly a soul about, and
Peter felt the night to fit his mood.

They went up once and down again, and at the Casino grounds Teanie
stopped them. "'Nough," she said; "I'm for home and bed. You two dears
can finish up without me."

"Oh, we must see you home," said Peter.

The doctor laughed. "Think I shall get stolen?" she demanded. "Someone
would have to get up pretty early for that. No, padre, I'm past the need
of being escorted, thanks. Good-night. Be good, Julie. We'll meet again
sometime, I hope. If not, keep smiling. Cheerio."

She waved her hand and was gone in the night. "If there was ever a
plucky, unselfish, rattling good woman, there she goes," said Julie.
"I've known her sit up night after night with wounded men when she was
working like a horse all day. I've known her to help a drunken Tommy
into a cab and get him home, and quiet his wife into the bargain. I saw
her once walk off out of the Monico with a boy of a subaltern, who didn't
know what he was doing, and take him to her own flat, and put him to bed,
and get him on to the leave-train in time in the morning. She'd give away
her last penny, and you wouldn't know s