een Stuyvesant awhile," he answered hurriedly. "He isn't so
well. I reckon he must have overdone it," and away he went with his
springy step until he reached the forward end of the promenade, where he
tapped at the stateroom door. The surgeon opened it and admitted him.

His eyes were grave and anxious when, ten minutes later, he reappeared.
"Norris is with him," he said in low tone, as he looked down into the
sweet, serious, upturned face. "He shouldn't have tried it. He fooled
the doctors completely. I'll tell you more presently," he added, noting
that Mrs. Wells, with two or three of the band, were bearing down upon
him for tidings of the invalid, and Sandy had heard,--as who had
not?--the unfavorable opinions entertained by the sisterhood of his
luckless, new-found friend.

"The doctor says he mustn't be both--I mean disturbed--wants to get him
to sleep, you know," was his hurried and not too happy response to the
queries of the three. "Matter of business he wanted to ask me about,
that's all," he called back, as he broke away and dodged other
inquiries. Once in the little box of a stateroom to which he and a
fellow subaltern had been assigned, he bolted the door, turned on the
electric light, and took from under his pillow a packet of letters and
sat him down to read. There was one from his mother, written on her way
back to Leavenworth, which he pored over intently and then reverently
kissed. Later, and for the second time, he unfolded and read the longest
letter his father had ever penned. It was as follows:

"I have slipped away from camp and its countless interruptions and
taken a room at the hotel to-night, dear Sandy, for I want to have
a long talk with my boy,--a talk we ought to have had before, and
it is my fault that we didn't. I shrank from it somehow, and now
am sorry for it.

"Your frank and manful letter, telling me of your severe loss and
of the weakness that followed, reached me two days ago. Your
mother's came yesterday, fonder than ever and pleading for you as
only mothers can. It is a matter that has cost us all dear
financially, but, thanks to that loving mother, you were promptly
enabled to cover the loss and save your name. You know and realize
the sacrifices she had to make, and she tells me that you insisted
on knowing. I am glad you did, my boy. I am going to leave in your
hands the whole matter of repayment.

"A young fellow