"Impossible—"
"I assure you, it's true. They were once even more plentiful. But we're pushing them back with the Indians into the sunset. And they, too, will fade away into the twilight at last—"
He stopped suddenly. He had almost spoken a sentence that would have committed him beyond retreat. It was just on his lips to say:
"I didn't take such tender views of Indians and buffaloes until I met you!"
For the life of him he couldn't make the girl out. Her voice was music. Her laughter contagious. And yet she was reserved. About her personality hung a spell which forbade familiarity. Flirting was a pastime in the army. But it had never appealed to him. He was not so sure about her when she laughed.
And then her father worried him. The fiery old Southerner had the temper of the devil when roused. He could see that this second daughter was his favorite. He had caught a look of unreasonable anger and jealousy in his eye only that afternoon when they rode away together.
Still he must risk it. He had really suggested this sunset scene for that purpose. The field was his own choosing. Only a coward could run now.
He managed at last to get his lips to work.
"Since you came, Miss Sarah—I've been seeing life at a new angle—" he paused awkwardly.
The red blood mounted to her cheeks.
"You have given me new eyes—"
She turned her head away. There was no mistaking the tremor of his tones. She was too honest to simper and pretend. Her heart was pounding so loudly she wondered if he could hear.
He fumbled nervously with his glove, glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and his voice sank to a whisper:
"I—I love you, Sarah!"
She turned slowly and looked at him through dimmed eyes:
"And I love you—"
She paused, brushed a tear from her cheek, and with sweet reproach quietly added:
"Why didn't you tell me sooner? We've lost so many beautiful days that might have been perfect—"
He suddenly stooped and kissed her full lips.
"We'll not lose any more—"
"The world is beautiful, isn't it, dear!" she said, nestling closer.
"Since I see with your eyes—yes. It was only a place to fight in, before. Now it's a fairy world, and these wild flowers that cover the plains only grow to make a carpet for the feet of the girl I love—"
"A fairy world—yes—" she whispered, "it's been just that to me since I first sang the 'Fairy Bells' for you—"
"I'll never love another song as that," he said reverently.
"Nor I," was the low response. "My heart will beat to its music forever—it just means you, now—"
For a long time they sat without words, holding each other's hand. The sun hung a glowing ball of fire on the rim of the far-away hills, and the shadows of the valley deepened into twilight.
"How wonderful the silence of the plains!" the lover sighed.
"It used to oppress me."
The man nodded.
"And now, I hear the beat of angels' wings and know that God is near—"
"Because we love—" and she laughed for joy.
Again they sat in sweet, brooding silence.
A horseman rode over the hilltop in the glow of the fading sun. From its summit, he lifted his hand and waved a salute. They looked below, and in the doorway of a cabin, a young mother stood, a babe in her arms answering with hand uplifted high above her child.
"What does it matter, dear," she whispered, "a cabin or a palace!"
IX
WAR
Side by side through the still white light of the full moon they rode home, in each heart the glow of the wonder and joy of Love's first revelation. Words were an intrusion. The eyes of the soul were seeing now the hidden things of life.
The gleam of the lights at the Fort brought them sharply out of dreamland into the world of fact.
"You must see my father to-night, dear," she said eagerly.
"Must I, to-night?"
"It's best."
"I'd rather face a hundred Red Men in war paint."
A merry laugh was her answer as she leaned close:
"Don't be silly, he likes you."
"But he loves you."
"Of course, and for that reason my happiness will be his."
"God knows, I hope so," was the doleful response. "But if I must, I must. I'll see him."
A quick kiss in the friendly shadows and she was gone.
He walked alone an hour after supper, screwing up his courage to the point of bearding the Colonel in his den. He fumbled the door-bell at last, his heart in his throat.
Old Rough and Ready was not inclined to help him in his embarrassment. Never had he seen the lines of his strong jaw harder or more set than when he grunted:
"Sit down, sir. Don't stand there staring. I'm not on inspection."
The perspiration started on his forehead and he moistened his dry lips.
"I beg your pardon, Colonel. I was a little flustered. I've—a—something—on—my mind—"
"Out with it!"
"I—I—I'm in love with Miss Sarah."
"You don't say?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Well, it's no news to me. The whole family have been enjoying the affair for some time. I suppose you're asking—or think you're asking—for my daughter's hand in marriage?"
"That's it—yes, sir—exactly."
"I guessed as much. I'm glad to tell you, young man, that I've always had the kindliest feelings for you personally—"
"Thank you, sir—"
"And the warmest admiration for your talents as an officer. You're a good soldier. You have brains. You have executive ability. You're a leader of men. You'll go far in your profession—"
"Thank you, sir—"
"And that's why I don't like you as a son-in-law."
"W—Wha—"
"I love my daughter, and I want her to be happy in a real home with a real husband and children by her side. A soldier's life is a dog's life. I've pitied the poor girl who gave up her home for me. Many a bitter tear has she shed over my absence, in torturing dread of the next letter from the frontier—"
He paused and sprang to his feet:
"A