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A very brilliant and pretty girl she is, too, and neither Mrs. McKay nor Nannie can wonder at it that Will’s few leisure moments are monopolized. “You are going to have me all to yourself next week, little mother,” he laughingly explains; “and goodness knows when I’m going to see Miss Waring again.” And though neither mother nor sister is at all satisfied with the state of affairs, both are too unselfish to interpose. How many an hour have mothers and, sometimes, sisters waited in loneliness at the old hotel for boys whom some other fellow’s sister was holding in silken fetters somewhere down in shady “Flirtation!”

It was with relief inexpressible that Mrs. McKay and Uncle Jack had hailed the coming of the 1st of June. With a margin of only two demerits Will had safely weathered the reefs and was practically safe,–safe at last. He had passed brilliantly in engineering; had been saved by his prompt and ready answers the consequences of a “fess” with clean black-board in ordnance and gunnery; had won a ringing, though involuntary, round of applause from the crowded galleries of the riding-hall by daring horsemanship, and he was now within seven days of the prized diploma and his commission. “For heaven’s sake, Billy,” pleaded big Burton, the first captain, “don’t do any thing to ruin your chances now! I’ve just been talking with your mother and Miss Nannie, and I declare I never saw that little sister of yours looking so white and worried.”

McKay laughs, yet his laugh is not light-hearted. He wonders if Burton has the faintest intuition that at this moment he is planning an escapade that means nothing short of dismissal if detected. Down in the bottom of his soul he knows he is a fool to have made the rash and boastful pledge to which he now stands committed. Yet he has never “backed out” before, and now–he would dare a dozen dismissals rather than that she should have a chance to say, “I knew you would not come.”

That very afternoon, just after the ride in the hall before the Board of Visitors, Miss Waring had been pathetically lamenting that with another week they were to part, and that she had seen next to nothing of him since her arrival.

“If you only could get down to Hawkshurst!” she cried. “I’m sure when my cousin Frank was in the corps he used to ‘run it’ down to Cozzens’s to see Cousin Kate,–and that was what made her Cousin Kate to me,” she adds, with sudden dropping of the eyelids that is wondrously effective.

“Easily done!” recklessly answers McKay, whose boyish heart is set to hammer-like beating by the closing sentence. “I didn’t know you sat up so late there, or I would have come before. Of course I have to be here at ‘taps.’ No one can escape that.”

“Oh,–but really, Mr. McKay, I did not mean it! I would not have you run such a risk for worlds! I meant–some other way.” And so she protests, although her eyes dance with excitement and delight. What a feather this in her cap of coquetry! What a triumph over the other girls,–especially that hateful set at Craney’s! What a delicious confidence to impart to all the little coterie at Hawkshurst! How they must envy her the romance, the danger, the daring, the devotion of such an adventure–for her sake! Of late years such tales had been rare. Girls worth the winning simply would not permit so rash a project, and their example carried weight. But here at “Hawkshurst” was a lively young brood, chaperoned by a matron as wild as her charges and but little older, and eager one and all for any glory or distinction that could pique the pride or stir the envy of “that Craney set.” It was too much for a girl of Sallie Waring’s type. Her eyes have a dangerous gleam, her cheeks a witching glow; she clings tighter to his arm as she looks up in his face.