FullReads

“The sentinel stars set their watch in the sky.”

The hush of the sacred hour has fallen on every lip save those of the merry party in the hall, where laugh and chatter and flaring gas-light bid defiance to influences such as hold their sway over souls brought face to face with Nature in this, her loveliest haunt on earth.

Phil Stanley’s heart is throbbing as he steps quickly to her side. Well, indeed, she knows his foot-fall; knows he is coming; almost knows why he comes. She is burning with a sense of humiliation, wounded pride, maidenly wrath, and displeasure. All day long everything has gone agley. Could she but flee to her room and hide her flaming cheeks and cry her heart out, it would be relief inexpressible, but her retreat is cut off. She cannot escape. She cannot face those keen-eyed watchers in the hall-ways. Oh! it is almost maddening that she should have been so–so fooled! Every one must know she 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 it was all his own fault, and that you yourself would have given him the report that so nearly ‘found him on demerit.’ A report on suspicion, too,” she adds, with scorn in her tone.

Mr. Stanley is silent a moment.

“You have heard a very unfair account of my words,” he says at last. “I have volunteered no opinions on the subject. In answer to direct question I have said that it was not justifiable to call that a report on suspicion.”