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"Who?" I cried. "What! You don't mean to say--was that Lieutenant Ferry?"

"I suppose we might call him a romanticist," said I, "might we not?"

But I was not needed; while I slept, who should come back and do my work in my stead but Ned Ferry. When I awoke it was with a bound of alarm to see clear day. The command was breaking camp. I rushed out of the tent with canteen, soap and comb, and ran into the arms of the mess-cook. We were alone. "Oh, yass, seh," he laughed as he poured the water into my hands, "th'ee days' rairtion. Seh? Lawd! dey done drawed and cook' befo' de fus' streak o' light. But you all right; here yo' habbersack, full up. Oh, I done fed yo' hoss. Here yo' jacket an' cap; and here yo' saddle an' bridle--Oh, you welcome; I dess tryin' to git shet of 'em so's I kin strak de tent."

A sweet color was I. "Yes, that's what I said; Cockerel. Isn't your last name Cockerel?"

"I see."

"One too modest," I murmured, "to know her own portrait." I clutched the braid emotionally and let it go intending to retake it; but she dropped it behind her and said I was too imaginative to be safe.

"Neither was Lieutenant Ferry," she dryly responded, "yet I have it from him."

"But if she--oh, yes!--Yes, to be sure; she could easily have got here yesterday afternoon."

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