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Yes, he thought so; but I believed the glow in his tone was for novels. I extolled the romance of actual life! I denounced that dullness which fails to see the poetry of daily experience, and goes wandering after the mirages of fiction! And I was ready to fight him if he liked. But he agreed with me most cordially.

"Some of our boys attacked by a rabbit," I suggested, but still hearkened.

We listened again. "They've gone the wrong way," I said, still savage.

"Why, I can read my safety in your face. You can't read anything in mine; you're afraid to look."

"You're tired!" murmured the voice beside me, and the wave rolled in again. I lifted my brow and moved one hand from hers to make room on it for my lips, but her fingers slipped away and alighted compassionately on my neck. "You must be one ache from head to foot!" she whispered.

"They were neither of them present, Lieutenant; that hand was Miss Coralie Rothvelt's."

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