oung officers, and he liked them to dance, bearing in mind
the saying of a great commander that a part of every soldier's
equipment is gaiety of heart; but he was grimly particular about the
kind of dancing that took place at Fort Blizzard. Before every ball,
Colonel Fortescue's aide, Conway, a serious young lieutenant, delivered
the Colonel's orders that there was to be no tangoing or
turkey-trotting or chicken-reeling or "Here Comes My Daddy" business in
that ball-room. Moreover, Neroda, the bandmaster, had orders if any of
these dances, abhorred of the Colonel's heart, were started the music
was to stop immediately. Colonel Fortescue himself, by way of setting
an example, would do a sedate waltz with some matron of the post, or
select a rosebud girl for a solemn set of lancers quadrilles. Mrs.
Fortescue still held the palm as the prettiest waltzer at the post,
none the less gay for being dignified. However, the young people,
except Anita, revenged themselves on the C. O. by doing, in their own
drawing-rooms, all the prohibited dances. With Anita, nothing could
have induced her to do anything forbidden by the beloved of her
heart--a trait not without its dangers.

Broussard was treated as a hero by everybody at the post and enjoyed it
extremely, in spite of his deprecation of all praise and declaring that
Gamechick was the real hero.

Among the festivities was a big dinner given at the C. O.'s fine
quarters to the officers of high rank at the fort, and as a special
compliment Broussard was invited, the only bachelor officer except the
serious Conway, Colonel Fortescue's aide, who classified Anita with the
After-Clap in point of age.

Broussard had met Anita and danced with her many times that fortnight
but, with native good taste, he avoided thrusting himself upon her.
She was so calm, so well poised, that Broussard concluded she had
forgotten all about the words spoken under the influence of the near
presence of love and death. In truth, Anita had forgotten nothing, but
had suddenly become a woman in those few days. Always Broussard had
wakened her girlish admiration by his charm of manner, his sly
impudence, his way of singing love songs; and her eyes followed him,
while she turned away from him. But she knew exactly what Broussard
had said to her while they stood on the tanbark and she blushed to
herself at the answer that came involuntarily to her lips. She knew no
more of actual love-making than the