came down to meet Phil Stanley when his
card was meant for another girl,--that girl of all others! All aflame
with indignation as she is, she yet means to freeze him if she can only
control herself.

"Miss Nannie," he murmurs, quick and low, "I see that a blunder has been
made, but I don't believe the others saw it. Give me just a few minutes.
Come down the walk with me. I cannot talk with you here--now, and there
is so much I want to say." He bends over her pleadingly, but her eyes
are fixed far away up the dark wooded valley beyond the white shafts of
the cemetery, gleaming in the first beams of the rising moon. She makes
no reply for a moment. She does not withdraw them when finally she
answers, impressively,--

"Thank you, Mr. Stanley, but I must be excused from interfering with
your engagements."

"There is no engagement now," he promptly replies; "and I greatly want
to speak with you. Have you been quite kind to me of late? Have I not a
right to know what has brought about the change?"

"You do not seem to have sought opportunity to inquire,"--very cool and
dignified now.

"Pardon me. Three times this week I have asked for a walk, and you have
had previous engagements."

She has torn to bits and thrown away the card that was in her hand. Now
she is tugging at the bunch of bell buttons, each graven with the
monogram of some cadet friend, that hangs as usual by its tiny golden
chain. She wants to say that he has found speedy consolation in the
society of "that other girl" of whom Mr. Werrick spoke, but not for the
world would she seem jealous.

"You could have seen me this afternoon, had there been any matters you
wished explained," she says. "I presume you were more agreeably
occupied."

"I find no delight in formal visits," he answers, quietly; "but my
sister wished to return calls and asked me to show her about the post."

Then it was his sister. Not "that other girl!" Still she must not let
him see it makes her glad. She needs a pretext for her wrath. She must
make him feel it in some way. This is not at all in accordance with the
mental private rehearsals she has been having. There is still that
direful matter of Will's report for "shouting from window of barracks,"
and "Miss Mischief's" equally direful report of Mr. Stanley's remarks
thereon.

"I thought you were a loyal friend of Willy's," she says, turning
suddenly upon him.

"I was--and am," he answers simply.

"And yet I'm told you said i