boy, a
sorrowing mother found two little notes written, like Beatrix Esmond's,
to lure her lover on. One was dated Fort Scott in the summer of '77. "We
are desolate again with all our soldiers in the field, but we pray for
happier days. Have you no new waltz music for us?" And this reached him
at the sea-shore. The second was posted on the railway and addressed to
his club in New York. "I am even more desolate than last year. Shall I
never hear from you again?" It contained a self-addressed envelope. And
that was why her boy postponed until later in the summer the voyage his
physician had advised, and why he lived apart from friends and kindred,
in Paris most of the time, until the death of his wretched companion
within a year of their flight. Then Langston, at his mother's prayer,
went over and fetched him home. It had been a year soon given over to
recrimination, bitter reproaches, and frequent and increasing
estrangement. Willett was but the moody wreck of his old self when
restored to the one faithful friend who clung to him as only mothers
will, in spite of all.

The Eleventh was a thousand miles or so away the summer of poor Mira's
final escapade, and not until she was across the sea did the news reach
her husband. She wrote a few words of farewell such as would be expected
of her. "You never loved me," she said, "never understood me, and in
every way I was made to feel that I was only a burden, only a doll. You
have mured me here in prison, where I have no soul to sympathize with
me, and I can bear it no longer. You will not miss me. Indeed, I know
too well how soon you will find solace, and where. Henceforth I dedicate
my life to one who adores me, whose soul responds to every thought of
mine. Adieu."

It was predicted about this time that Davies would resign, shoot
Willett, or study for the ministry. Many men thought that he bore his
wrongs so meekly that he had mistaken his calling. One man, a sergeant,
said as much in Corporal Brannan's presence, and the result was a scene
that called for the intervention of the guard and the adjudication of a
court-martial. Brannan lost his chevrons, but gained an enthusiastic
friend and champion in Cranston, who sifted out the cause of the
fight,--a matter scrupulously hidden from the court. Brannan went into
the Ute campaign the following year a sergeant, and out of the army with
an Indian bullet through his arm and into his chest, where the doctors
couldn't find it. Li