"You don't seem very sociable," he said at length, "so I guess I'll go out for a bit, especially as I see your friend coming. I never like to intrude." With this parting fling, he left the house, carefully avoiding Doctor Norton, who was crossing the parade-ground.
From where she sat, Mrs. Howard could see her husband, erect and soldierly, making his way to the offices. During the first two years of their married life, she had been very happy, but since they came to live at Fort Dearborn, he had been subject to occasional outbursts of temper which distressed her greatly.
Her face, always expressive, was white and troubled when she opened the door for the Doctor. He understood—he always did. He was one of the few men who are not dense in their comprehension of womankind.
They talked commonplaces for a little while, then he leaned forward and took her cold hand in his.
"Something has bothered you," he said kindly. "Tell me and let me help you."
"You couldn't help me," she answered sadly; "nobody can."
Doctor Norton was not more than thirty-five, but his hair was prematurely grey, and this, together with his kindly manner, often impelled his patients to make unprofessional confidences. Like many another woman, too, Mrs. Howard was strong in the face of opposition, but weak at the touch of sympathy.
"It's nothing," she said. "Ralph is cross nearly all the time, though I don't believe he means to be. He has been that way ever since—ever since the baby died."
She turned her face away, for the little grave in the hollow pulled piteously at the mother's heartstrings when the world went wrong.
"He has always blamed me for that," she went on. "One of the reasons why I wanted to live here, instead of at Fort Wayne, was that I might have my mother to help me take care of the baby. She knew more than I did; was wiser and more experienced in every way, and I thought the little lad would have a better chance. Instead, as you know, he took cold on the way here and did not get well, so his father has never forgiven me."
The tears came fast and her white lips quivered. "Don't, Katherine," he said. It was the first time he had called her by name, and she noted it, vaguely, in the midst of her suffering.
"Don't, Katherine," he repeated. "All we can do in this world is the thing that seems to us the best. We have no concern with the results, except as a guide for the future, and sometimes, years afterward, we see that what seemed like a bitter loss in reality was gain. Some day you may be glad that you lost your boy."
"Glad? Glad I have lost my only child? Doctor, what are you thinking of!"
"Of you. Whatever troubles you troubles me, also. You know that, don't you?"
For an instant she was frightened, but his calm friendliness reassured her. "Thank you," she returned, "you have always been good to me."
"I shall always try to be. Nothing that comes to you is without meaning for me, and you will always have at least one friend." There was an eloquent silence, then the tension of the moment snapped, and he released her hand.
"I'm silly," she laughed hysterically, wiping her eyes. "Have you any medicine for silliness?"
"If I had, I should keep it for those who need it worse than you do. I wish you would go outdoors more. Walk on the parade-ground and across to your mother's—those two places are certainly safe—and when you get tired of that, go over to Mrs. Franklin's. She's a nice little woman and she needs cheering up, too. I have a suspicion, Mrs. Howard, that the temperament which urges a man to be a soldier is very seldom elastic enough to include the domestic hearth."
Katherine's face brightened, for she had not thought of that, and the suggestion that others had the same trouble was not without its dubious consolation.
For an hour or more he talked to her, telling her bits of news from the barracks which he thought would interest her, and offering fragments of philosophy as the occasion permitted.
"You're a tonic," she said lightly, as he rose to go; "the blues are all gone."
"I'm glad of that. Now remember, when anything goes wrong, tell me. Perhaps I can help you—at least I can try."
Half-way across the parade-ground he turned back to smile at her as she stood at the window, and she waved a friendly hand in response. It was at this unlucky moment that the Lieutenant left the offices, having had high words with the Captain about the condition of the garrison and the possibility of a war with England.
She was vaguely uneasy when he went out of his way to meet the Doctor, but, though he spoke to him, he paused for scarcely an instant in his rapid stride. He was pleasant enough when he came into the house, and she thought that all was well.
He made no reference to their earlier conversation, but talked easily and indifferently, with a mild desire to please, as is the way of a man who is ashamed of himself.
"Wouldn't you like to go across the river?" he asked.
"Why, yes," she replied wonderingly, "I don't mind."
"Come on, then."
His dark, handsome face was still pale, and the lines of weakness were distinct around his mouth, but Katherine's heart, leaping to meet its desire, turned newly toward him, as a flower lifts its face to the sun.
"Poor boy," she said affectionately, putting her hand on his arm, "you have lots of things to bother you, don't you?"
"That I do, Kit. I suppose you think I'm a brute sometimes."
"No, indeed," she answered, generously.
"You've been hard to get on with lately," he observed.
"Have I, dear?" She was surprised and conscience-stricken; the more so because the possibility had not occurred to her. "I'm sorry," she said after a little. "I'll try to do better."
"I don't think it's altogether your fault," he rejoined. "I've noticed that you get cranky after Norton has been to the house, and I think he has a bad influence over you." The Lieutenant tried to speak jauntily, and failed.
"So, naturally," he continued, clearing his throat, "I've done as any other man in my position would do. I've told him not to come unless he's asked in his professional capacity, and to make those visits when I'm at home."
"Ralph!" It was the cry of a hurt child, and every vestige of colour fled from Katherine's face. She pressed her hands to her breast and leaned against the stockade at the entrance to the Fort.
"Well?" he asked ironically, "have I broken your heart?"
"To think," she said slowly, "that you could be so discourteous to any one, and especially to a friend who has been so kind to us as Doctor Norton. I'm ashamed of you."
"Your actions, Katherine, only prove that I have taken the right course. If I had any doubt before, I am certain now. You will oblige me by avoiding him as much as possible."
He never called her "Katherine" unless he was very much displeased with her, and they crossed the river without speaking. Howard hummed a popular air to himself, with apparent unconcern.
At Mackenzies', all was bustle and confusion. Indians hurried in and out of the house, talking and gesticulating excitedly. The snow on the path was worn as smooth as ice and Chandonnais was running to the Agency building on the other side of the river.
"What is it?" asked Katherine.
"Dunno," said the Lieutenant, laconically.
When they entered, John Mackenzie was, as he expressed it, "pretty nigh beat out." Robert had dismissed school, and was helping him as best he could, though he was heavily handicapped at the start by his ignorance of values and of the Indian tongue.
The space behind the counters was heaped high with furs. Deer hide