that he was from one of the newspapers, and that he must see him
at once.

Bansemer stood stark and dumb at the foot of the steps. The whole
situation had rushed upon him like an avalanche. Harbert had filed
his charges and the hasty visit of the reporter proved that David
Cable was an instrument in them. The blood surged to his head; he
staggered under the shock of increased rage.

"Graydon is against me! They've won him over! Open the door, damn
you! I want my son!" He shouted the demand in the face of the
startled servant as he pushed rudely past him.

"You stay here, young fellow, and you'll hear a story that will
fill a whole paper. I am James Bansemer. Where is Cable? You!" to
the servant.

"Sh!" cried the frightened servant, recognising him. "Mrs. Cable
is resting, sir."

"What are you doing here?" Bansemer demanded of the reporter, exerting
all his crafty resourcefulness in the effort to calm himself.

"Cable has been elected president of the---" began the young man
just as Cable himself started down the stairway.

"Cable, where is my son?" demanded Bansemer loudly, starting toward
the steps. He had not removed his hat and was, indeed, an ominous
figure. Cable clutched the stair rail and glared down at him in
amazement. Before he could pull himself together sufficiently to
reply, Graydon Bansemer hurried past him and stared in alarm at
the unexpected figure below.

"What's the matter, dad?" he cried. "What has happened?"

"Aha? You think something could have happened, eh? Damn all of
their souls, you shan't be taken in by them. Come down here, boy!"

"Father, are you crazy?" gasped Graydon, rushing down the stairs.

"Get him away from here, Graydon, for God's sake," exclaimed Cable.
"Take him away! He's your father, but if he stays in this house a
minute longer I'll kill him!"

The man from the newspaper was shrewd enough to withdraw into a
less exposed spot. He saw a great "beat" in prospect.

Graydon stopped as if stunned by a blow. Bobby Rigby came running
to the head of the stairs, followed by Jane and another young woman.
James Bansemer could not have been expected to know it, but Rigby
and Miss Clegg had come to tell these friends that they were to be
married in December.

"Kill me, eh? Not if you can't do a better job than you did
the other night. Here, you reporter, ask Mr. Cable to explain the
mystery of that affair on the lake front. Oh, I know all about it!
You've started in to ruin me, but I'll be in on it myself. We'll
have a general cleaning up."

"Father! What are you talking about?" cried Graydon, aghast.

"They haven't told you about the lake front, eh? I should think
not!  See him cringe!"

Cable had indeed fallen back against the wall, halfway up the steps,
white and trembling. His eyes were raised, and he was the first to
see Mrs. Cable as she came from her room.

"Go back!" he whispered hoarsely to her. She reached the banister
and leaned over, her eyes filling with terror after a swift glance
at Jane.

"Take Jane away," she murmured, realising that the blow was to
fall.

"I'll stop his infernal tongue!" shouted Cable, leaping down the
steps, his eyes blazing. James Bansemer laughed as he braced himself
for the shock. They did not come together, for Graydon threw his
big frame in the path of the assailant. For an instant there was a
frightful uproar. Rigby and the servant rushed to the young man's
assistance. The women were screaming with terror, the men were
shouting and there was a. violent struggle which played havoc in
the hallway.

"Call the police!" shouted Rigby.

"You infernal traitor!" hissed James Bansemer. "You claim to be
Graydon's friend, and yet you are the one who has led the plot to
ruin me."

"What does it all mean?" cried Graydon, holding; the shaking Cable
tightly.

There was a moment of intense silence, except for the heavy
breathing of the men. Graydon was staring wide-eyed at his father.
He saw the cruel, sardonic smile spread over his face and shuddered.

"I've simply come to take you out of the clutches of these people.
I've waited to see if that scheming woman, up there would tell
you of her own accord. She hasn't told you; so I will. You cannot
marry that girl, for your haughty Jane Cable is a child of shame,
picked up on a doorstep, cast off by the woman who conceived her!"

The crash had come. The heartless accuser stood like a tragic
player in the centre of his stage, pouring out his poison without
a touch of pity for the stricken girl who, after the first thrill
of indignation and horror, had shrunk back into her mother's arms,
bewildered.

"Call the police, if you like," laughed Bansemer, at the end of
his tirade. "It isn't a criminal offence to tell the truth. It will
sound just as well in court, Mr. Rigby."

"Jane, Jane," Mrs Cable was murmuring, "I might have saved you all
this, but I couldn't--oh, I couldn't pay the price."

"You snake!" groaned Cable, weak and hoarse with rage. "Jane, he
has lied! There is not a word of truth in what he says. I swear it
to you."

"Ho, ho! By Heaven, she hasn't told you, after all!" cried Bansemer.
"You still think she is yours!"

"Father!" exclaimed Graydon, standing straight before the other.
David Cable had dropped limply into a chair, his hand to his heart.
"I won't stand by and hear you any longer. Take back what you've
said about her, or, damn you, I'll forget that you are my father
and---"

"Graydon!" exclaimed Bansemer, falling back, his expression
changing like a flash. The smile of triumph left his face and his
lip twitched. "You forget I--I am doing this for your sake. My God,
boy, you don't understand. Don't turn from me to them. They have---"

"That's enough, father! Don't say another word! You've talked like
a madman. See! Look what you've done! Oh, Jane!" he caught sight
of the girl on the landing and rushed up to her.

"Is it true, Graydon--is it true?" she wailed, beating her hands
upon his arm.

"No! It can't be true! He's gone mad, dearest."

"Is it true, mother? Tell me, tell me!"

Frances Cable's white lips moved stiffly, but no sound came forth.
Her eyes spoke the truth, however. The girl sank limp and helpless
in Graydon's arms and knew no more. At the foot of the steps Rigby
was pointing his trembling finger at James Bansemer.

"You'll pay for this to-morrow!" he was saying. "Your day has come!
You cutthroat! You blackmailer!"

"Graydon!" called the father. "Come, let us go home. Come, boy!"

"Not now--not now," answered the son hoarsely. "I'll--I'll try to
come home to-night, father. I'm not sure that I can. My place is
here--with her."

Without a word James Bansemer turned and rushed out into the street,
tears of rage and disappointment in his eyes. He had not expected
the gall. Until the break of day he sat in his chill room waiting
for the rasp of his son's night key--but Graydon did not come home.

CHAPTER XX

FATHER AND SON

Graydon sat with his chin in his hands, dull, stricken, crushed.
He had heard the story of his father's baseness from Frances Cable,
and he had been told the true story of Jane; from Rigby he learned
of the vile transactions in which his father had dealt. At first,
he could scarcely believe his own ears, but in the end lie saw that
but--half the truth could be told.

It was past midnight when he left David Cable's, not to go to his
own home, but to that of Elias Droom. He knew now that the newspapers
would devote columns to the "sensation in high life"; he knew that
Jane would suffer agonies untold, but he would not blame his father
for that; he knew that arrest and disgrace hung over the tall grey
man who had shown his true and amazing side at last; he knew that
shame and humiliation were to be his own share in the division.
Down somewhere in his aching heart he nourished the hope that Elias
Droom could ease the pain of these wretched disclosures.

As he traversed the dark streets across town he was vaguely wondering
whether Jane's eyes would ever lose the pained, hopeless expression
he had last seen in them. He wondered whether she would retract her
avowal that she could not be his wife with the shame upon her; he
rejoiced in her tearless, lifeless promise to hold him in no fault
for what had happened.

Distressed and miserable, he spent the remainder of the night in
Elias Droom's squalid rooms, sitting before the little stove which
his host replenished from time to time during the weary hours.

Droom answered his questions with a direct tenderness that surprised
even himself. He kept much to himself, however, and advised the
young man to reserve judgment until after he had heard his father's
side of the story.

"I've been loyal to James Bansemer, Graydon, and I'll still be loyal
to him. He's not done right by other people, but he has tried to
do right by you."

"If he wanted to do right by me, why did he not tell me of Jane's
misfortune?" exclaimed the young man bitterly.

"Because he really wanted you to marry her. She was born wrong, but
anybody can see she is without a flaw. That's the truth, Graydon.
Your father was wrong in his desire to make capital of it in
connection with Mrs. Cable. I told him so. I don't believe he knew
just what he was doing. He was so used to success, you see. Can't
you go to sleep, boy? You need to."

"God, no!"

"I'd advise you to go home and talk it over with your father."

"To-morrow will be time enough. After the newspapers are out. I
can't bear to think of the disgrace, Harbert has been interviewed,
they say. He's told everything."

"Talk to your father to-night, my boy. There may be--may be warrants
to-morrow."

The young man dropped his head on his arm and burst into tears.
Old Droom puffed vigorously at his pipe, his eyes shifting and
uncomfortable. Twice he attempted to speak, and could not. In both
instances he arose and poked the fire. At last the young man's
choking sobs grew less violent. Droom cleared his throat with raucous
emphasis, took his snaky gaze from a print on the wall representing
"Dawn," and spoke:

"You wouldn't think it to look at me now--or any other time, for
that matter--but I loved a woman once. A long time ago. She never
knew it. I didn't expect her to love me. How could I? Don't cry,
Graydon. You're not like I was. The girl you love loves you. Cheer
up. If I were you I'd go ahead and make her my wife. She's good
enough, I'll swear."

"She says she can't marry me. Good Heaven, Elias, you don't know what
a blow it was to her. It almost killed her. And my own father--oh,
it was terrible!"

Elias Droom did not tell him--nor had he ever told anyone but
himself--that the woman he loved was the boy's mother. He loved her
before and after she married James Bansemer. He never had faltered
in his love and reverence for her.

Graydon waited in his rooms until the old man returned with the
morning papers. As Droom placed them on the table beside him, he
grinned cheerfully.

"Big headlines, eh? But these are not a circumstance to what they
will be. These articles deal only with the great mystery concerning
the birth of one of the 'most beautiful and popular young women in
Chicago.' Wait--wait until the Bansemer smash comes to reinforce
the story! Fine reading, eh!"

"Don't, Elias, for Heaven's sake, don't!" cried the young man. "Have
you no soft spot in your heart? God, I believe you enjoy all this.
Look! Look what it says about her! The whole shameful story of that
scene last night! There was a reporter there when it happened."

Together they read the papers. Their comments varied. The young
man writhed and groaned under the revelations that were going to
the public; the old clerk chuckled and philosophised.

Every one of these papers prophesied other and more sensational
developments before the day was over. It promised to be war
to the knife between David Cable, president of the Pacific, Lakes
& Atlantic, and the man Bansemer. In each interview with Cable he
was quoted as saying emphatically that the adoption of Jane had
been made with his knowledge and consent. The supposed daughter was
the only one to whom the startling revelations were a surprise. There
also was mention of the fact that the young woman had immediately
broken her engagement with James Bansemer's son. There were pictures
of the leading characters in the drama.

"I can't stay in Chicago after all this," exclaimed Graydon, springing
to his feet, his hands clenched in despair. "To be pointed out and
talked about! To be pitied and scorned! To see the degradation of
my own father! I'll go--anywhere, just so it is away from Chicago."

Droom forgot his desire to scoff. His sardonic smile dwindled into
a ludicrously, pathetic look of dismay. He begged the young man to
think twice before he did anything "foolish." "In any event," he
implored, "let me get you some breakfast, or at least, a cup of
coffee."

In the end he helped Graydon into his coat and glided off down Wells
Street after him. It was seven o'clock, and every corner newsstand
glowered back at them with black frowns as they looked at the
piles of papers. Two rough-looking men walking ahead of them were
discussing the sensation in a lewd, brutal way. A saloon-keeper
shouted to them: "It don't always happen over on de West Side, does
it?"

Graydon went to the office of Clegg, Groll & Davidson early and
arranged his affairs so that they could be taken up at once by
another; and then, avoiding his fellow-workers as much as possible,
presented himself to Mr. Clegg at ten o'clock. Without hesitation
he announced his intention to give up his place in the office. All
argument put forth by his old friend and employer went for naught.
The cause of his action was not discussed, but it was understood.

"If you ever want to come back to us, Graydon, we will welcome you
with open arms. It isn't as bad as you think."

"You don't understand, Mr. Clegg," was all that Graydon could say.

Then he hurried off to face his father.

James Bansemer, haggard from loss of sleep and from fury over the
alienation of his son, together with the fear of what the day might
bring, was pacing the floor of his private office. Droom had eased
his mind but little in regard to his son. When he heard Graydon's
voice in the outer room, his face brightened and he took several
quick steps toward the door. He checked himself suddenly with the
remembrance that his son had turned against him the night before,
and his face hardened.

Graydon found him standing stern and unfriendly before the steam
radiator in the darkest corner of the room, his hands behind his
back. The young man plumped down heavily in his father's desk chair.

"Why didn't you come home last night?" demanded the other.

"I hated the thought of it," he answered dejectedly.

"You've listened to their side of the story. You're a splendid son,
you are!" sneered the father.

"There is nothing base and unprincipled in their side of the story.
They have tried to shield her; they have never harmed her. But you!
Why, father, you've blighted her life forever. They were going to
tell her in a day or so, and they could have made it easy for her.
Not like this! Why, in Heaven's name, did you strike her like that?
She's--she's the talk of the town. She's ostracised, that's what
she is, and she's the best girl that ever lived."

"Oh, you think they would have told her, eh? No! They would have
let her marry---"

"Well, and what was your position? Why were you so considerate up
to last night? If you knew, why did you let me go on so blindly?
The truth is, father, if you must have it, you have acted like a
damned scoundrel."

James Bansemer glared at his son with murder in his eyes.

"I wouldn't have believed the other things they say of you if I
hadn't this to break down my faith. I heard this with my own ears.
It was too contemptible to forget in a lifetime. I did not come
here to discuss it with you. The thing is done. I came here to tell
you that I am going to leave Chicago. You WON'T go, so I will."
Bansemer still glared at him, but there was amazement mingling with
rage in his eyes. "I can't look a soul in the face. I am ashamed
to meet the Cables. Good Lord, I'm afraid even to think of Jane."

"I suppose you-you would marry her, like a fool, even now," muttered
the father.

"Marry her? Of course I would. I love her more than ever. I'd give
my life for her; I'd give my soul to ease the pain you have thrust
upon her. But it's over between us. Don't let our affairs worry
you.  She has ended it. I don't blame her. How could she marry your
son?  Why, do you know that I have hoped that I might not be your
son, after all? I almost prayed that my mother might have loved
someone else instead of you. God, I'd like the pain of knowing
that."

Bansemer leaned heavily against the radiator, gasping for breath.
Then he staggered to the couch and dropped upon it, moaning.

"Graydon, Graydon! Don't say that! Don't! I'll make everything
right. I'll try to undo it all! My boy, you are the only thing on
earth I love. I've been heartless to all the rest of the world,
but I love you. Don't turn against me."

The son stood looking at him in dull wonder. His heart was touched.
He had not thought that this stern man could weep; he began to see
the misery that was breaking him.

"Dad, don't do that," he said, starting toward him. "I'm sorry.
I'm sorry for you."

Bansemer leaped to his feet, his mood changing like a flash.

"I don't want your pity. I want your love and loyalty. I didn't
mean to be weak. Will you leave Chicago with me? I must go. We'll
go at once--anywhere, only together. We can escape if we start now.
Come!"

"I won't go that way!" exclaimed Graydon. "Not like a criminal."

"No? You won't?" There was no answer. "Then, there's nothing more
to say. Go! Leave me alone. I had prayed that you might not have
been like this. Go! I have important business to attend to at
once." He cast his gaze toward the drawer in which the pistol lay.
"I don't expect to see you again. Take this message to the Cables.
Say that I am the only living soul who knows the names of that
girl's father and mother. God alone can drag them from me."

Graydon was silent, stunned, bewildered. His father was trembling
before him, and he opened his lips to utter the question that meant
so much if the answer came.

"Don't ask me!" cried Bansemer. "You would be the last I'd tell.
Marry her, and be dammed!"

"I don't believe you know," cried Graydon.

"Ah, you think I'll tell you?" triumphantly.

"I don't want to know." He sat down, his moody gaze upon his
father.  Neither spoke for many minutes. Neither had the courage.
James Bansemer finally started up with a quick look at the door.
Droom was speaking to someone in the outer office.

"Go now," he said harshly; "I want to be alone."

"Father, are you--are you afraid of these charges?" His father
laughed shortly and extended his hand to the young man.

"Don't worry about me. They can't down James Bansemer. You may
leave Chicago; I'll stay! Goodbye, Graydon!"

"Good-bye, dad!"

They shook hands without flinching and the young man left the room.
On the threshold the father called after him:

"Where do you expect to go?"

"I don't know!"

Droom was talking to a youth who held a notebook in his hand and
who appeared frightened and embarrassed. Graydon shook hands with
the old man. Droom followed him into the hall.

"If you ever need a friend, Graydon," he said in a low voice, "call
on me. If I'm not in jail, I'll help you."

Half an hour later Graydon rang the Cables' doorbell.

"Miss Jane is not seeing anyone to-day, sir," said the servant.

"Say that I must see her," protested the young man, "I'm going away
to-night."

"So is she, sir."

"Where?"

"I don't know, sir. California, more than likely. Mrs. Cable and
she will be gone for some time."

"Did she tell you not to admit me?" he asked, white-faced and calm.

"Yes, sir. NOBODY, sir."

He turned down the steps and walked away.

That afternoon he enlisted, and the following morning was going
westward with a party of recruits, bound eventually for service
with the Regulars in the Philippines.

CHAPTER XXI

IN THE PHILIPPINES

David Cable lost no time in hurrying away from Chicago with his
wife and Jane. They were whisked westward in his private car on
the second day after the Bansemer exposure. Broken-spirited, Jane
acquiesced in all their plans; she seemed as one in a stupor,
comprehending, yet unresponsive to the pain that enveloped her.

"I can't see anyone that I know here," she said listlessly. "Oh,
the thought of what they are saying!"

They did not tell her that Graydon had enlisted as a private soldier
in the United States Army; Jane only knew that she loved him and
that the bar sinister existed.

Cable's devotion to her was beautiful. He could not have been
more tender had she been his own daughter, instead of his wife's
imposition.

Jane was ill in Pasadena for many weeks. Her depressed condition
made her recovery doubtful. It was plain to two persons, at least,
that she did not care whether she lived or died. The physicians
were puzzled, but no explanation was offered by the Cables. It was
not until certain Chicago sojourners generously spread the news,
that the cause of her breakdown became apparent to the good doctors.
Before many days, the girl who sat, wan and distrait, upon the
flower-shaded piazza was an object of curiosity to fashionable
Pasadena. As soon as she was strong enough to endure the trip, the
hunted trio forsook Pasadena and fled northward.

San Francisco afforded relief in privacy. Jane's spirits began to
revive. There had not been, nor was there ever to be, any mention
of that terrible night and its revelations. What she may have felt
and suffered in secret could only be conjectured by those who loved
her.  Bansemer's name was never uttered. His fate remained unknown
to her.  The far-away, unhappy look in her eyes proved to them that
Graydon was never out of her thoughts.

David Cable was in Chicago when Mrs. Cable received word from her
sister, once Kate Coleman, that she soon would reach San Francisco
with her husband, bound for the Philippines. Kate was the wife of
a West Pointer who had achieved the rank of colonel in the volunteers,
by virtue of political necessity. His regiment had been ordered
to the islands, and she was accompanying him with their daughter,
a girl of sixteen.

Colonel Harbin had seen pleasant service at the Eastern posts where
his wife had attained a certain kind of social distinction in the
army fast set. She was not especially enamoured of the prospect
ahead of her in the Philippines; but the new colonel was a strict
disciplinarian on and off the field. He expected to be a brigadier-general
if fortune and favouritism supported him long enough. Mrs. Harbin
could never be anything more than a private in the ranks, so far
as his estimation of distinction was concerned.  His daughter Ethel
had, by means of no uncertain favouritism, advanced a few points
ahead of her mother, and might have ranked as sergeant in the family
corps.

Mrs. Harbin played cards, drank highballs, flirted with the younger
officers, got talked about with pleasing emphasis, and was as happy
as any subordinate could be. They had not even thought of such a
thing as divorce, and the whole army wondered and expressed disgust.
The army's appetite for scandal is surpassed only by its bravery
in war. It is even hinted that the latter is welcomed as a loophole
for the former. War brings peace.

The arrival of the Harbins and a staff of gay young cadets fresh
from the banks of the Hudson put new life into the recluses. The
regiment was to remain at the Presidio for several weeks before
sailing. One of the lieutenants was a Chicago boy and an acquaintance
of Graydon Bansmer. It was from him that Jane learned that her
sweetheart was a soldier in the service, doubtless now in Luzon.

A week before the sailing of Colonel Harbin's transport Jane
suddenly announced that she had but one desire on earth, and that
was to go to Manila with her aunt. She did not present her plea with
the usual claim that she wanted to be of service to her country;
she was not asking to go out as a heroine of the ordinary type;
instead, she simply announced that she wanted to go as a temporary
member of Colonel Harbin's family, to endure their hardships and
to enjoy their enthusiasms. Mrs. Cable recognised the true motive,
however.

Her pleadings were in vain. The Harbins had lucklessly urged Jane
to join them. Telegrams flew back and forth across the continent
and David Cable came on to present his feeble objections.

When the great transport sailed away, Jane Cable was one of her
passengers, the ward of the regiment.

"It's just for a little while, dad," she said wistfully at the
dock.  "A few months. I'll think of you every minute I'm away."

The blood of the man in the service was calling to her. The ocean
was between them; the longing to be near him, to tread the same
soil, had conquered in the eternal battle of love. After all, no
matter how the end was attained, she was a creature of life, brought
into the world to love and to be loved. She put the past behind her
and began to build a new future--a future in which the adoration
of Graydon Bansemer was the foundation. The hope that makes all
human averages was at the work of reconstruction; youth was the
builder.  The months of destruction had not left a hopeless ruin
as the heritage of dead impulses.

The world grew brighter as the ship forged westward. Each day sent
warmer blood into her veins and a deeper light into her eyes. The
new life was not inspired by the longing to be his wife, but to
see him again and to comfort him. She would be no man's wife.

At last, one hot, soft morning in early July, the great transport
slipped past Corregidor and turned its nose across Manila bay, past
Cavite, toward the anchorage which ended the long voyage. The city
of Manila lay stretched out before them--Manila, the new American
capital.

The troops were marched off to quarters and the Harbins, with Jane
Cable, repaired at once to the Oriente, where they were to live
prior to taking a house in Ermita or San Miguel. The campaign was
not being pushed vigorously at this time; it was the rainy season.
Desultory fighting was going on between the troops and the insurgents;
there were numerous scouting and exploring expeditions into the
enemy's country. The famous round robin of the correspondents had
been sent to the United States by this time, taking severely to task
the army censorship which prevented the real condition of affairs
from reaching the deluded public. The situation was much worse
on the island of Luzon than anyone at home could have imagined.
But little truth escaped the vigilant wisdom of the arbitrarians.
It was not until later on, however, that the effects of the round
robin were felt in headquarters at Manila; when that time came the
Ayuntamiento in the walled city was not a pleasant retreat for the
newspaper men who had dared.

A week elapsed before Jane could find the opportunity to make
inquiries concerning the whereabouts of Graydon Bansemer. Her
thoughts had been of nothing else; her eagerness had been tempered
by the diffidence of the over-zealous. She and pretty Ethel Harbin
had made life endurable for the gay young officers who came over
on the ship; the pretty wives of certain captains and lieutenants
had small scope for their blandishments at close range. Flirtations
were hard to manage in space so small. The two girls were therefore
in a state of siege most of the time. The abject following fell
away perceptibly when the broader field of action on shore gave
their married sisters a chance to manoeuvre with some degree of
security.  A faithful few remained in train, however. Ethel Harbin,
like the ingenue in the play, had each finger clumsily but tightly
wrapped with a breathing uniform of blue. It must be admitted in
shame, however, that she changed the bandages often and without
conscience or ceremony.

Jane's admirers were in love with her. She was not the sort to
inspire idle fancies--either in married or unmarried men. In any
event, it looked a long time to these chaps before they could get
back to the States, and she was worth while.

Perhaps her most, devoted admirer was Lieutenant Bray. Good-looking
and coming from an excellent Southern family, he was a great
favourite with all. Jane liked him better than any of the rest;
she would have liked him still better had he been able to resist
a tendency to boast of the stock from which he had sprung. The
knowledge of her disadvantages in life, the contrast between their
respective positions, all tended to emphasise the irony of fate;
and she often found herself wondering how this sprig of true
aristocracy would conduct himself if he discovered that, after all,
she was only a FOUNDLING.

It was Lieutenant Bray who made inquiries at general headquarters
and found, after considerable trouble, that Graydon Bansemer's
company was in the north, subject to the requirements of Young,
chief of scouts. Irksome were the lazy summer months for Jane.
She tired of the attentions of men; she sickened with longing and
anxiety. Day after day she prayed that the troops in the north
might be relieved; she watched for the order that would call for
their return from the wet lands above. Sickness was prevalent among
the fighting corps; the wet season had undermined the health of
many.  Constant news came down to Manila of the minor engagements,
and she looked at every report for news of Graydon. Colonel Harbin,
occasionally, had private advices from the north. She heard of
Graydon's bravery more than once and glowed with pride. Down in
her tired, anxious heart she was wondering if it were possible for
her to go to the front in any capacity.

At last, with October, came the waning of the rainy season.
November brought active fighting. A general movement of the troops
was directed against Aguinaldo. In his prime, as a leader, he
controlled the north, and his capture was imperative. Lawton and
Young began operations on the right; McArthur on the centre; with
Wheaton pushing forward on the extreme left. The insurgents fell
back from Tarlac. There were many big fights at San Jacinto and
other places now famous in history.

The Red Cross society held forth at Malolos, reaching gradually
into the country north. Sick and wounded men came into the hospitals
daily and in larger numbers than one would have supposed. The villages
or barrios all along the line of advance saw their convents turned
into hospitals; as fast as possible the nurses were hurried up
to them. Men and women in this noble service did heroic, faithful
work both for the white and the brown men who went down. From the
field hospitals the men were taken to the convents and treated
until they were able to be moved to Manila.

Further north fled Aguinaldo and the Filipinos. Wheaton was ordered
to cut off his retreat; Young was killed; Cunningham took charge
of the scouts who scoured the country. Parties of ten or fifteen
picked men fell out in advance of the main body, seeking to
develop the enemy and his defences. These brave fellows attracted
the hidden fire of ambush, exposed themselves to all the treacheries
of warfare, and afterwards were mustered out with a kind word from
the department. They were the men who tested the territory. It was
with one of these scouting parties that Graydon Bansemer ventured
far into the enemy's country early in November.

CHAPTER XXII

THE CHASE OF PILAR

Gregorio Del Pilar, the picturesque Filipino leader, about whom
so much has been written in praise, by the war correspondents, was
leading his men back into the dangerfields, inviting the American
pursuers into every trap which his crafty brain could devise.
History tells of Pilar's call to arms. He was attending a great
ball in Dagupan, given in honour of his approaching nuptials. In
the midst of the festivities a messenger dashed in with the news
that the American troops were closing in on Tarlac, the insurgents'
seat of government. Pilar rushed from the ballroom and made his
way to the head of his command. His parting from the bride-to-be
is pathetically described by many of the writers who were in the
islands at the time. There was no more daring, romantic character
in all the Philippines than young Pilar. Educated, refined, clever
and attractive, he was a favourite with all, admired by friend and
foe alike.

Captain Groce, with a company of infantry, was following him closely
and doggedly into the fastnesses far to the north. Village after
village was devastated by the white troops, always a few hours after
the wily Pilar had evacuated. Amigos laughed in their deceptive
sleeves at the Americans and misdirected them with impunity. In
eight cases out of ten the amigo wore arms underneath his garment
of friendship and slew in the dark whenever opportunity arose.
Graydon Bansemer was one of this doughty, eager company which blazed
the way into the hills. Close behind came the bigger and stronger
forces, with guns and horse, and the hospital corps. It was the
hunt of death for Aguinaldo and Pilar.

Shortly after daybreak, one morning, a slim, black figure crept out
from among the trees and gave the countersign to the challenging
sentry. He was soon on his way to the Captain's headquarters
bearing news of importance. The brown-skinned scout had travelled
all night over a hazardous route, and he was more than welcome. He
brought news that Pilar's men were off to the east and the north,
well intrenched and prepared to fall upon the Americans when
they advanced blindly into the trap laid for them. The newspaper
men pricked up their ears, and at once looked to a box of carrier
pigeons which formed a most important part of their pilgrimage. A
fight was at hand, doubtless an important meeting of the clashing
forces. The whole army was waiting for intelligence of Pilar--waiting
with little less anxiety than that which attached itself to the
pursuit of Aguinaldo.

Captain Groce ordered Sergeant Gonnell with a picked squad
to reconnoitre. They scurried off in advance of the company with
instructions to locate the elusive enemy, and open up the secret of
his position. Supposedly, Pilar was ten miles off among the rocky
foothills which guarded the pass through the mountains. As usual,
Bansemer was one of the scouts. He snatched his rations with the
others and went forth eagerly to court the danger and the excitement
that was promised. For days they had had no fighting worthy the name.
Amigos everywhere, villages peopled only by women and children,
treacherous peacefulness on every side; this had been their encounter:
an occasional rifle shot from the rice fields, a crackle of guns
far ahead, a prisoner or two who had not been quick enough in
transforming himself from combatant to friend, that was all. Now,
there seemed to be real fighting ahead.

Pilar was known to have many men--good soldiers all of them. The
native scout gave close and accurate directions as to his position;
it remained for Connell's men to draw him out, if possible. Captain
Groce and the remainder of his eager company did not march until
long after the scouts were on their precarious way.

Two hours after the party of eleven left the village, a Mauser
bullet from the clump of trees far to the right cut through the
hat of one of the scouts who was some distance in advance of his
fellows. As he saw the scout stoop to pick up his hat, Rogers turned
to the man nearest him and remarked:

"They'll get him sure as shootin' some day if he hikes along in
that damn fool way."

It was no new experience for the scouts to find the quarry gone
when they reached the place where they expected to find him. Pilar's
own scouts had found that the ambuscade was destined to fail of
its purpose, and the wily leader drew back into the more accessible
country. The scouting party did not come in sight of the little
brown soldiers. The occasional crack of a Mauser broke the silence
of the advance, keeping the Americans in active touch with the
dangers that surrounded them.

They found the deserted trenches and signs of recent occupation.
The insurgents had been gone from the position less than two hours.
Treachery faced the little squad of Americans on every side,
but they did not falter. Connell scattered his men and they stole
carefully into the fastnesses, finding on all sides evidences of hasty
departure. Before noon they were far up in the hills, everywhere
met by the physical assurance that the enemy was not far ahead
of them. Behind them came Captain Groce and his men and the two
correspondents.

Amigos along the mountain road gave information that was not worth
having. A deserted village showed signs of the passage and finally
there was proof ahead that Pilar had stopped to give battle. He
had reached his vantage ground. Connell and his men drew back and
waited. Nightfall came and with it the spiteful crack of the Mauser
rifle. A brawny trooper toppled over with a great hole in his head.
Pilar's pickets could see like cats in the night. The native scout
reported that the big village of Concepcion was not far ahead;
Pilar's men were making their stand before this rather important
stronghold.

"We'll get a scrap that is a scrap, boys," said Connell, exultingly.
"These fellows are going to put up a fight, at last. They're like
bees up yonder. We've got to fall back on the company; if we don't,
they'll chew us up before the little captain can get to us."

Too well did the men know the bellicose temperament of the big
Irishman to think of grumbling at such a command; yet, it was with
a certain reluctance which invariably accompanies a backward step
that the men retired to meet the advancing company.

Young Bansemer in his khaki uniform was not the immaculate, debonnaire
man of the drawing-room. Service, though short, had been hard and
gruelling. His face was even handsomer with its rugged lines and
set features. He was thinner and browner; his eyes were clearer
and a darker grey; his hair seemed thicker and fairer than before;
his figure more erect and sinewy. The wistful look in his eyes
seemed to betray hunger for action; his ever-ready eagerness to be
on the move told of his strength and of his weakness. He had the
lean, active bearing of the panther and the restless daring of that
lithe animal.

No man in the company had stood fire as valiantly as he. He courted
the whiz of the bullet, scoffed at the rigours of the march, and
instinctively was a good shot with the rifle. He bore no grudge
against the department at home; he had no grievance.

The officers recognised in him a man of parts, a man of station far
above the position which he had chosen in the army. He was a source
of mystery to the men of his own rank in the line-the ploughboys,
the teamsters, the roustabouts, and the ne'erdowells who had gone
into the army from choice or discretion. At first they had called
him the "dude," and had laughed at his white hands and clean jaws.
His indifference to their taunts annoyed them. One day he knocked
down the biggest bully of the lot and walked away without even
waiting to see whether he could arise after the blow. He simply
glared at the next man who chaffed. It was enough. The company held
him in a new respect that forbade the reporting of the incident to
the officer of the day.

Every night before he lay down to sleep, In the rice field or the
barrios, he took from his pocket a leather case and gazed at the
small portrait it sheltered. No one had been permitted to see him
in his devotions, for that was what he called these sacred moments.
His lean face, full of fierce energy all day long, softened as his
eyes devoured the dainty miniature.

On meeting their company, Connell reported the situation ahead,
to his superior officer; orders were given for the men to bivouac
for the night in a small village close at hand. That evening Bansemer
was discovered leaning against the corner of a nipa shack some
distance from his comrades, smoking silently while they talked and
made merry behind him. He seldom joined in the ribald but suppressed
conversations of the men.

"Have you fellows ever noticed that he don't get any letters from
the States-never seems to expect any?" asked Johnny Rogers, the
one-time foundry man, who sat watching him. Graydon had not been the
subject of conversation, but all knew whom Johnny meant by "he."

"I've noticed that, too," said Joe Adams.

"I got him sized up all right," said one of the Spurrier boys. "His
people don't know where he's at. That feller's a swell at home an'
he's had to skip out. I'll bet my breakfast his name ain't Bansemer.
An' if his people don't know where he's at, how in thunder can they
write to him? See what I mean?"

"Think he's a bank cashier?" asked Sim Relander.

"Naw; it ain't money, it's some girl. I know these swell guys,"
said Rogers. "You're right about his people not knowin' where to
write.  He's a mystery, that feller is. I'll tell what I think:
his folks have fired him out--won't recognise him. See? Disgraced
'em, an' all that. That's why he ain't expectin' nothin' from home.
He knows he won't get it."

"I feel kind o' sorry for a feller like that," mused Tom Reagan.
"I had a brother that had to skip once."

"That so? Did he ever come back?"

"I s'd say not. He ducked for good. Mother had a letter from him
couple o' months before I left home. He was in Milwaukee."

"Aw, this Bansemer's not that sort. He's made o' different stuff.
Milwaukee? Holy Moses, it's only eighty mile from Chicago!"

"Gee, I'd like to have a glass o' the goods that made Milwaukee
famous," sighed Joe Adams.

"I'd like a keg," said Jim Spurrier, with a wistful look in his
eyes.

"S'pose we'll ever see a glass o' beer again?" asked the other
Spurrier, solemnly.

"I'll bet Bansemer's wonderin' if he'll ever taste champagne again."

"Ask him, Johnny."

"Hey, Bansemer. I've got a riddle for you. What 'u'd you sooner
have right now than a bottle of champagne?"

Graydon turned and sauntered slowly over to the group. He paused
for a moment in passing, a broad smile on his face.

"A pail of beer," said he.

"Good fer you!" shouted two or three vociferously. He strode off
to make ready for bed.

"He's all right," exclaimed Sim Relander feelingly, as if that
laconic reply had been the only thing necessary to establish the
young man's social standing.

"That feller's been out here only four months, an' I'll bet they
ain't any ten men in the Philippines what's had as many clost calls
as he's had," said Johnny Rogers. "I was thinkin' about it to-day.
He's had more narrow escapes in tight places than---"

"Well, the darned fool rushes right into 'em, don't he? He ain't
got no sense. Nobody ought to git out where he can be shot at when
there ain't no need. Take that blamed fool trick o' his'n there
at Tarlac.  When he went back all alone after the papers that Cap
Groce dropped.  I'll bet he was shot at two hundred times."

"Well, he didn't get hit, did he? If he gets hit good 'n' proper
once he won't be so keen about showin' off," growled one of the
men.

"Depends on where he's hit. Then, there was that time when he dumb
the hill back yonder and turned the fire o' the gugus so's we could
get up into the pass. He makes me think o' Lawton. There's the boy
for me. If we had a few more generals like Lawton we'd put a crimp
in these niggers so quick it would look like a spasm." Having
delivered himself of this safe prophecy, Mr. Rogers glared about
him for opposition. None forthcoming, he proceeded, with a satisfied
snort, to refill his pipe.

"Lawton's makin' history, and don't you forget it," observed Luke
Hardy.

"He's from Indiana," piped up a homesick ploughboy from the Hoosier
State.

"Then, it'll be a historical novel," said the gaunt young recruit
from Grand Rapids. He was a cynic who had tried newspaper work,
and who still maintained that the generals did not have as much
intelligence as the privates.

"I'll never forget Bansemer when he first enlisted," reflected Joe
Adams. "He wanted to go out for a cold plunge and a morning stroll,
and then asked the sergeant where he could get a good riding horse.
He's not so keen about strolls these days."

"He don't turn up his nose at things like he used to, either."

"I don't see why the devil he keeps so clean," grumbled Adams. "I
can't."

"I'll bet one thing," mused Rogers. "He'll be a captain or something
before this scrap is over."

"He'll be a corpse, that's what he'll be."

"It's my opinion he'd just as lief be shot as not," said Relander.
"The only trouble is that these measly niggers can't hit anything
they shoot at. If the darned fools would only try to miss him,
they'd get him sure. The devil and Tom Walker--what's that?"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE FIGHT IN THE CONVENT

"Halt! Who goes there!"

A shot rang out in the stillness of the night; it was answered at
once by another closer in. More shots followed, gradually increasing
to a fusillade as the scouts and pickets came running back. Men
sprang up from the ground, but even as they did so another volley
reached them, and three men dropped with a groan and lay still.
The alarm sounded clear from the bugle and echoed back from the
surrounding hills. A sharp command came from the throat of the
sergeant; the company seized the stacked rifles. Captain Groce
gave another order; the formation to repel attack was made in an
incredibly short space of time. There was no disorder; no confusion.
The little officer was as cool as if on dress parade.

"Steady, men! Wait until they're nearer!" They had not long to
wait.  From all sides a horde of shouting, firing men were rushing
on the little square. "Steady, men!" was still his only command.

Then, when it seemed almost a physical impossibility to restrain
their itching fingers from pulling the triggers, the longed for
word was given.

"Here they are! Now, then, boys, fire!"

Volley after volley rang out. The foremost of the enemy fell
at their feet. Hand to hand was the fighting; the bayonets lunged
with deadly effect, but seemed powerless to thrust the mass back
on itself. Men shot, hacked, stabbed and clubbed each other. It
was a whirl of uplifting and descending rifles and bolos.

Fierce oaths vied with the shrieks of the wounded for supremacy.
The grunt of men who slaughter; the gasps of the victims when the
steel went home were heard on all sides. At times the soldiers
could not see on account of the sweat and blood pouring from their
faces; the very air was foul from the steam from the living and the
dead. They could not breathe; a sort of vertigo overpowered them,
and they only kept their feet by grappling with the enemy.

To Bansemer, it seemed that all his life he had been doing nothing
but warding off and ring blows. Fighting side by side with Rogers,
he saw, with horror, that the soldier's rifle had been torn from
his hands, and that he had no weapon to defend himself; but before
he could see just how it happened, this individual combat had altered
its aspect: Rogers had grabbed a Filipino's gun and was doing the
clubbing. With renewed zest Bansemer finished with the bayonet
his own assailant, and saw the man fall on top of poor Adams and
Relander.

Suddenly there was an exultant yell from the enemy. Instinctively
Bansemer knew that one side of the square had given way. Quickly
turning, he rushed to give his aid, and just in time caught the
arm of a native about to slash him with a huge knife. With the two
gripped hands high in the air struggling for mastery, the adversaries
became separated a bit from the rest of the chaotic mass of friend
and foe, swaying out to one side of the plaza, and under the walls
of a convent. Bansemer was facing it; and just at the moment that
he felt his strength giving way and could see a grin of triumph on
the fiendish face, there carne a flash and a report, and his adversary
fell at his feet. Glancing up to ascertain who had fired the shot
that had saved his life, he thought he saw a figure disappearing
from one of the windows. The incident acted as an inspiration.
Gathering together a few men, he reached the Captain's side and
communicated his plan. The opportunity was not to be lost.  Groce
gave an order; Connell repeated it. Then interpreting a temporary
lull in the murderous struggle as their vantage, the men with a
cheer, and dragging the field piece, broke for the building; and by
bayoneting and clubbing the insurgents out of the way accomplished
the dash with slight loss. The soldiers hurled themselves against
the stoutly barred door; it fell with a crash.

Guards were stationed and all openings and windows manned.  Singularly
enough, these defensive actions seemed at least, temporarily
unnecessary, for the watchers peering out of the windows reported
that the dead alone occupied the recent field of battle.  Not a
single Filipino was to be seen on the plaza.

Every village has its convent or barrios. Generally speaking, their
size corresponds in a certain ratio with the population. But this
particular building was an exception. Dimly lighted, it gave the
impression of ranking in size with many of those in far larger
villages Immediately the thought came to the invaders that the church
might have sheltered the insurgent leaders. Aguinaldo or Filar
might have directed the attack from inside these walls. Orders were
given to search every corner and crevice to ferret out concealed
foes. A rear window was open, proving that flight could have been
by that means of egress. Bansemer was almost positive that the
bullet which had killed his assailant had come from one of the upper
windows, but whether from friend or foe, was undeterminable.  Was
it possible that he had been mistaken? Had his eyes been so blinded
with the smoke of battle that they had played him false?  Were they
not in a cunningly planned trap of some kind?

Considerably perplexed, Bansemer decided to keep on his guard. He
was ruthlessly searching the chancel when a deep groan caught his
attention. Presently, as he paused to listen, a dark figure leaped
towards him from a recess back of the altar. The flash of a pistol
blinded him, and momentarily, a sharp pain shot through his arm;
but he recovered in time to throw his tall frame forward upon the
slight, almost indistinguishable figure. There was a short struggle,
and before his comrades could reach him his adversary was safely
pinned to the floor. A moment later the torches in the hands of his
friends were burning brightly above the figure of his captive--a
slender boy who choked with terror and rage.

"Who the devil are you, my young friend?" asked Bansemer, holding
the boy at arm's length.

There was no answer from the tightly closed lips; and Bansemer shook
him a little roughly. Then, for the first time, he perceived that
he was not a Filipino. His skin was dark, but not the skin of the
native; the handsome, boyish face had regular features, European
in character.

"Spaniard?" inquired Bansemer, a trifle more gently; and again the
boy flashed a look of hatred into his captor's eyes.

"Look here, my young spalpeen," said Connell, gruffly; "Filipino
or Spaniard, if you want to save your hide, you'd better answer
questions--and no lies, do you hear?"

At this threat, a deep groan was heard to come from somewhere back
in the recesses of the chancel. The men were startled.  Involuntarily,
the boy cast a furtive glance in that direction.  Connell noticed
it, and leaving the boy with Bansemer, hurried away and soon was
looking down into the face of a prostrate man, young, but aged with
emaciation.

"You must not touch him! Don't you see that he is dying?" cried
the boy piteously in broken English. "He cannot fight you--he's
dying;" and then, in a perfect frenzy of rage to Bansemer: "Let me
go--pig!"

Not until afterwards did Bansemer recall that in the general
excitement it was the boy who dragged him along to the spot. And
in spite of the solemnity of the scene, there was something in his
manner of delivering the insult that amused rather than angered
the American.

"Plucky little devil!" he said, half-aloud.

Again the sick man groaned, tried to rise from the blankets and
speak, but only to fall back moaning. Connell cautioned him against
exertion and promised that no harm should come to either of them.
While he reported the discovery to Captain Groce, he had the man
carried to another part of the church and there made comfortable.
For the first time now, Bansemer began to notice the pain in his
arm. Somewhat angrily, he turned to the boy:

"Come! Give an account of yourself! How came you here?"

"Prisoners," was the sullen answer.

"Of the Filipinos?" Bansemer asked, in surprise.

"Yes."

"Then why did you try to kill me?"

"I hate you both! We Spaniards, have we not as much to fear from
you? What difference does colour make in brutes?"

"By the holy apostles! you're a gritty, young 'un!" growled the
returning sergeant. "Who's the other chap?"

"My brother--he's dying," said the boy, his voice softening. "Holy
Virgin, save him! For weeks, we've been in the hands of Aguinaldo's
men. He's been so ill, all the time; have you a doctor?"

"A surgeon will probably be with us before long," was the sergeant's
evasive reply.

Bansemer looked searchingly at Connell. What he saw in the other's
eyes caused him a sharp pang of grief. Both men turned their faces
away for a moment and it was with a gulp that Connell continued:

"Your brother will have the best of care if we get out of this
mess.  You are both safe. We are not fighting the Spaniards;" and
then, pertinently: "So these were Aguinaldo's men?"

"Yes, he was here directing the fight," the boy answered.

"Aguinaldo here!" This and other ejaculations of surprise and
anger burst in chorus from every throat; but as suddenly they were
followed by expressions of chagrin. For, by contrasting the present
situation with that which they had anticipated, this information
had succeeded in intensifying their mortification.

But notwithstanding his share of the universal disappointment,
a hasty reflection of preceding events convinced Graydon that
personally he had little ground for complaint against the late
occupants of the convent. For unintentional as undoubtedly had
been the act through which at the very point of death his existence
had been preserved, there was no evidence to refute the hypothesis
that the shot which had killed his assailant in the plaza had been
fired by one of the insurgents under cover.

"Great Scott!" was the exclamation to which he gave utterance. "Once
more, I suppose, I owe my life to the blundering marksmanship of
a Filipino!"

This half-hearted acknowledgment of his strange indebtedness educed
from his companions no recognition other than a puzzled stare from
the sergeant and an enigmatical smile on the face of the young
Spaniard. Connell proceeded with his examination:

"Why did they leave you here?"

"They had no time to take us with them when you broke in," was the
boy's answer. "Aguinaldo was on his way to some village where his
family is in hiding. The scouts told him of your presence; then
he determined not to wait for Pilar, but to surprise you. We never
rested day or night. My poor brother--how he suffered!"

"Yes, yes, but why are they carrying you on a march like this?"

"My brother is the only man who knows where the Spanish gold was
hidden when our war was ended--I mean, the gold that came up with
guns and ammunition. Aguinaldo is looking for the hiding place. My
father, a high officer in the Spanish Army, died of the fever last
winter. We were stolen from our house in Manila by Aguinaldo's
men, and have been going from place to place ever since. We have
not told of the hiding place. The Americans do not need gold, no?"
The boy laughed sarcastically.

"How many men has Aguinaldo?"

"Three hundred or more. I would advise you to look out for Pilar.
He, too, may come at any moment."

Scarcely had the words left his mouth when a storm of yells came
from outside the convent; and immediately the boy rushed to his
brother's side.

"Great Caesar, there's a thousand of them!" cried Rogers.

Instantly every man made for the position assigned to him. The gun
was in readiness. Outside, the Mausers rattled, bullets coming from
all quarters and thumping sharply against the opposite walls with
a patter that warned the Americans against standing erect.

Occasionally, a scout would peep from a window and take a shot
into the darkness, but these ventures were few. All lights were
extinguished; the men fired at the spots from which burst the flames
of rifles, then dropped suddenly. After a while the firing of the
Filipinos dwindled into a shot now and them.

"Keep low! They don't dare risk a charge! Be ready to defend the
door!" Captain Groce commanded.

The night wore on, and, with the cessation of hostilities, confidence
increased. Reinforcements were not far off, and it did not seem
possible that the sounds of battle could not be heard. The men,
worn out by the exciting events of the day, were generally silent;
Sergeant Connell, however, was an exception.

"Get us I Not a bit of it!" he was saying. "The dirty, little cowards!
Major March will be here in the shake of a dead lamb's tail."

An hour later Bansemer, his rifle in hand, sitting near one of the
windows, suddenly felt someone tugging at his arm. Turning, he saw
the Spanish boy.

"Won't you come and help me to carry my brother behind the stone
altar wall?" he was saying. "He is exposed to the bullets and cannot
move himself."

"Willingly!" and Graydon followed his lead. As if he was a child,
he picked up the gaunt Spaniard and carefully bore him to the place
of shelter. But despite all that he could do to hide his suffering,
the pain in his arm, which the removal of the man had increased,
was such, for a moment, that he felt faint and staggered. The boy
was quick to notice it, and quickly asked:

"What is the matter? Wounded?"

"It's nothing--merely a scratch."

"Oh, I know--why, it's your arm--and I---" The boy's face crimsoned
with shame and contrition. Through the semi-darkness the blush
escaped Graydon's notice, but not so the truly feminine, little
shriek of dismay, as he touched and felt the wet sleeve.

"It was I who did it! Oh, how can you ever forgive me?"

Graydon, dumbfounded, stared in wonder.

"What?" he exclaimed; "you're a girl?"

"Yes--I'm his sister," pointing to the dying man; then, with some
embarrassment: "These clothes? They are the only ones they would
give me. You see a girl would have been a burden; a boy none at
all.  Do you think that had I been a man you could so easily have
overpowered me? No!"

The slim, little figure drew itself up straight and defiant before
him. Despite the loose, ugly garments of the Filipinos, Graydon
noticed, for the first time, that the figure was perfectly moulded
and high-bred. She swept off the wide hat she wore, and the man saw
a mass of dark hair done up tightly on her head. But even while
he gazed her mood changed; she became subserviently anxious and
begged him to let her attend to his arm. She pleaded so hard that,
to please her, he yielded. Water was obtained from somewhere; the
slight flesh wound washed; and then, disappearing into the darkness,
to his amazement she returned almost instantly with some bandages
and dressed his arm.

While this surgical operation was going on, Graydon, for the life
of him, could not resist the temptation to ask her again why she
had tried to shoot him. At first, so terribly in earnest did she
take the question and beg for mercy, that he smiled at her; and
then, seeing his amusement, she said, coquettishly:

"How could I possibly have known that you were so nice? Besides,
I had always heard you Americans referred to as brutes."

Graydon laughed, then suddenly his face became very grave. The
realisation of her terrible situation had dawned upon him. A woman
among a crowd of rough soldiers! Her brother and protector dying!
And all surrounded by hordes of savage enemies who at any moment
might kill them! The thought dismissed all pleasantry from his
mind.  Something must be done, and at once. Presently, he asked:

"What is your name?"

"My father was Colonel Ramos Jose Velasquez; that also is
my brother's name, except that he is not an officer. I am Teresa
Fortune Velasquez. My mother was English--a sister of Sir William
Fortune. She is dead. For ten years we have lived in Manila."

"You won't mind if I call the sergeant, will you?"

The girl nodded a slightly bewildered assent as Graydon moved
rapidly towards the others. Shortly, he returned with the gallant
Irishman.

"Senorita," began Connell, mopping his forehead and assuming his
most polite manner; "you are perfectly safe with us, and as quickly
as possible your brother and yourself shall be sent back to Manila.
You are a brave slip of a girl, and we boys respect bravery in
whatever dress--boy or girl."

She looked at him in grateful surprise and her lips trembled.

"But I am not your friend?"

"Possibly, senorita;" he bowed low with almost Chesterfieldian
grace; "but we are your friends."

Outside, once more the Mausers were rattling, and Connell, with a
word of parting hastily took his leave. Graydon, on the point of
returning to his post, was prevented by the girl.

"You were gentle with me even when I tried to---Don't risk your life
there. Shoot from that narrow gate," pointing aloft; "it's not so
exposed."

Bansemer dragged an altar chair up to the grated window and perched
himself upon it. The girl sat below him, holding her brother's head
in her lap. He was groaning and crying out to the soldiers to kill
him rather than permit him to fall into the hands of the natives
again.

Suddenly there was a great commotion, and crashing of timbers in
the front part of the church, followed by shouts and the rushing
of feet. Graydon dropped from his perch and ran forth into the
chancel.  As he did so the banging of rifles close at hand deafened
him. In an instant he saw what had happened. The Filipinos had
charged the door and had forced it. They were crowding their way
into the church in the face of the deadly Krag-Jorgensens. The
chapel was lighted, but not from the inside. Cunning insurgents, in
the shelter of the walls, were holding great torches just outside
of the windows.  Graydon could see his comrades firing at the door
from behind every conceivable barrier. Without hesitation he dashed
down the aisle and into the thick of the fray near the door.

The struggle was brief but fierce. The merciless fire of many Mausers
on the outside opened a way through the small band of defenders,
and the rush of the besiegers was successful. Through the door and
windows they came, swarming like bees. Many of them fell to rise
no more, but their comrades took an eye for an eye. Once confident
soldiers toppled over dead until but few were left.  Bansemer led
them in a quick dash for the chancel, hoping that the enemy would
not dare attack a place so sacred.

Captain Groce and other officers had fallen; Connell became the
leader of the remnant. Bansemer stood squarely in front of the
altar and blazed away at the horde of Filipinos as they advanced.
They shot at him wildly and without effect; bullets crashed into
the altar decorations behind him. He stood there as one protected
by God, unharmed in the shelter of the cross.

Behind him his comrades cowered and cursed in their dread of certain
death. He heard the shrill cries of the girl urging him to protect
her brother. She was calling upon God and the Holy Virgin to aid
and shield him. And he stood there with a crazy joy in his heart,
savagely pulling the trigger of the Krag-Jorgensen. Finally the
hammer snapped with no report. As he turned back in consternation,
a small figure leaped to his side with a fresh weapon.

He shouted a word of warning to her and wheeled again to confront
the foe. Even as he raised the gun a great shout arose above the
noise of conflict. There was a mighty rush, a new banging of guns,
a sudden stampede and--the chapel was filled with men in khaki!

CHAPTER XXIV

TERESA VELASQUEZ

Great was the disappointment of Major March and his men when
they found that neither Aguinaldo nor Pilar had fallen into their
hands.  Although they had come just in time to prevent the complete
annihilation of the little company, the leaders had escaped with
the remnant of their surprised forces. Scores of Filipinos were
captured, dozens were killed and wounded. Eight of the dashing scouts
who went out with Jerry Connell gave up their lives in exchange
for the final victory.

A small guard was left at the convent to care for the wounded, the
bulk of the command hurrying off at dawn to search for the routed
Filipinos. Graydon Bansemer was put in charge of the convent
guard.  A surgeon and the application of "first aid to the injured"
principles soon transformed the convent into a well arranged
hospital. Uncle Sam's benevolence was also cheerfully extended to
the wounded Filipinos. The days of the "water cure" and "ungodly
butchery" had not yet come.

Young Velasquez died soon after daybreak. He had been dying for days.
His sister's grief was pathetic in the extreme--aye, demoralising,
for it struck deep into the hearts of soldiers who had scoffed at
the life-blood of man, but could not brave the tears of a woman.

Bansemer did all in his power to comfort and console her. It was
to him that she clung in her despair. He had been her captor; and
yet it had been he who stood forth in his might to defend her and
the loved one who was dead. At nightfall the dead were buried in
that far-off wilderness, their humble graves marked and recorded
before the time when the government could come to give other graves
in other lands to these who had given their lives. Velasquez was
laid beside the Americans. Teresa, a shivering, sobbing little
figure in the garb of an insurgent soldier, was supported by big
Graydon Bansemer. There was no service except the short army ritual;
there was no priest or pastor; there was but one real mourner--a
pretty, heart-broken girl who lay for hours beside the rude mound
on the hillside.

Word came back at nightfall that the detachments were to form
a junction at one of the big villages westward in two days. The
instructions were that the wounded Filipinos should be left in the
village, where native women and doctors would care for them.

"What in thunder are we to do with the girl?" was the question that
came from the officer in command. More than one man scratched his
head thoughtfully and looked toward the disturbing element that
had come into the army. She was sitting alone and disconsolate in
front of the church.

"There's no way to send her back to her friends, and we can't leave
her here," said Bansemer.

"But, gee whiz, we can't take her on a hike like this," protested
the sergeant. "She'll be in the way, and she'll give out, and all
that. Besides, what would we do with a woman around all the time?"

"I fancy she can hike all right," said Graydon. "Major March wouldn't
expect us to leave her behind. That would be heartless."

By the time the party and guides was ready to start on its forced
march, the opinion, unanimously expressed was that Teresa Velasquez
should go forward also, come what might. She had pleaded so hard
and so effectually that the men were fairly swept off their feet
in a storm of sympathy.

"If she gives out we'll carry her," roared a deeply impressed young
man with long red whiskers.

"And when we get up to the command we'll make them derned
correspondents take turn about walkin', so she can ride a pony all
the time. They've got no business ridin', anyhow."

And so with rosy confidence in the fitness of things and a just
belief in the charity of Major March, the detachment marched out
into the hills, the ward of the company trudging bravely beside
the tall and envied Mr. Bansemer--who, by the way, aside from being
politely attentive, did not exhibit any undue signs of exaltation.

The presence of a woman--and a very pretty one at that, with
a sadness in her eyes that was appealing--served only to send his
thoughts bounding back to the girl he had left behind. He grew more
and more morose and silent as the day wore on; at times the tired,
lonely girl at his side lagged and cast wondering, piteous glances
at him. Her woman's intuition told her that this man did not belong
where he was; it told her also that he had a secret and that one
of her sex was deeply involved.

The events of the next two weeks are of small consequence in this
narrative, which deals not so much with the history and mystery of
the campaign in the fall of '99 as with the welfare and emotions
of a single soldier at the front. Aguinaldo and Pilar had become
refugees by this time, hunted and hounded from place to place with
relentless fervour. Pilar was somewhere in the hills with his men,
the pride of the insurgent forces; Aguinaldo's remnant had scurried
off in another direction, and General Tono was on the coast with
what was left of the scattered force.

The net about Gregorio del Pilar was being drawn in and tightened.
The closing week in November saw him driven to the last extremity.
The tragedy of Tilad Pass was near at hand.

Teresa Velasquez never faltered, never tired. She proved herself to
be no incumbrance. Day after day, the officer in command expected
the expedition which would take her back to Manila; forces came up
from the south, but none were ready to go back.

She was an inspiration to the camp. Men who had forgotten their
manners completely brushed them up and danced attendance upon the
girl in the Filipino uniform.

Every man prayed for opportunity to do brave deeds, and when
chance came she was permitted to witness heroism that savoured of
the boyhood malady known as "showing off."

The reserved, but considerate Bansemer was her closest friend
and confidant. One evening, as they sat side by side watching the
preparations for supper, she turned suddenly and announced that
she knew he was dying of love for someone. He started and his hand
trembled.

"Tell me about her," she commanded. There was a piquancy, a gay
impelling force in this girl that grief and hardship had not been
strong enough to conquer. Her hours of sadness were spent alone--hours
when she was supposed to sleep, but instead, lay awake and sobbed
without tears.

"Nonsense!" said Graydon. "Why do you think that of me?"

"Because everybody else thinks it," she said; "and because I am a
very wise person. The men are not so charitable as I, senor. They
say that you joined the army because of some woman whom you could
not marry. I agree with them, except that it is she who would not
marry you. Forgive me, if I have hurt you."

Impulsively, she put her hand upon his, her dark eyes full of
pleading. The touch of her hand did not send a thrill through him;
such contact, however, caused the blood to tingle in the quick veins
of the girl. He merely sat and stared into space. After a moment,
she drew her hand away.

"I am sorry," she said.

"There is a girl, Teresa," he said shortly.

"Yes, I know. Tell me about her."

"I can't," he exclaimed, bitterly. He arose and walked quickly
away.  Teresa's dark eyes followed him in pity and wonder, aye,
affection.  Then she shook her head sadly and turned her attention
elsewhere--not piqued, much to her own amazement.

Reinforcements came up two days later with the word that the
commander in chief expected the campaign against Pilar to end within
a week, and that hard fighting was ahead. The Red Cross people were
following hard upon the heels of the regiment and field hospitals
were to be established. This information was so suggestive of fierce
and final combat that the men felt their sluggish blood leap wildly
into life.

Every man in the band of newcomers was singing the praises of
a wonderfully beautiful Red Cross nurse. The stories told of her
charms were varied, but none lacked enthusiasm. Some said she was
the daughter of a rich magnate come to do service in the cause of
humanity; others were sure she was a great and beautiful actress
who was sacrificing everything to conspicuous advertising. All,
however, were agreed in the praise of her noble beauty.

The little detachment on guard turned up its collective nose and
proudly pointed to Teresa Velasquez.

"Look at that," said Bob Spurrier. "Can she stack up with the
hiking queen? Our girl is real quality. She's no common American.
She's a grandee's daughter. There's royal blood in her. By thunder,
gentlemen, she's blood kin to little Alfonso."

Teresa sought shelter from the curious though admiring eyes of the
fresh arrivals.

"I don't like these new soldiers," she complained to Graydon. "I
wish they had not come. They talk of this beautiful nurse and they
laugh at me. Oh, I wish I had something else to wear."

"Don't worry, little girl, you're worth ten nurses," said he.

"Alas, though I am dressed as a man, I do not feel as bold as one,"
she lamented.

The next day reinforcements came up and the whole command advanced
upon Tilad Pass, where Pilar, at last, had been cornered. On
the second of December a desperate conflict took place. Pilar was
intrenched in the Pass near the celebrated rock known as El
Obispo--"the Bishop." His resistance for a time was valorous and
deadly. Corporal Parry saw him mount his horse behind the barricade,
six hundred yards away. Parry was the best marksman in the regiment,
and turning to his chief officer, asked if he should take a shot
at him.

He fired and Pilar fell, face downward; and the Americans crushed
the little band of insurgents. Gregorio Del Pilar was dead. His
death in the great hills, after a most courageous battle against an
overwhelming force, brought to an end a life that would have been
worth much to the islands in after years. In his pockets were found
valuable papers, letters and keepsakes. The letters were from his
sweetheart, Dolores Jose, who lived at Dagupan, and they were tender
in the extreme. Her lace handkerchief rested over his heart.

When the Americans, victorious and jubilant, fell back to camp, they
had no small number of wounded to turn over to the tender mercies
of the little company of Red Cross nurses and the surgeons.

One of the most dangerously injured was Graydon Bansemer. He was
one of the first to cross the danger line; a Mauser ball from a
distant hill tore through his side, leaving an ugly gaping wound
that foretold certain death.

CHAPTER XXV

THE BEAUTIFUL NURSE

When the beautiful and mysterious nurse whose fame had gone up with
the soldiers into Tilad Pass, arrived with others to take charge
of the Red Cross hospital, on the day following the battle, she
found the man she had been longing to see for many weary, heartsick
months. She found him dying.

To the surprise of the enthralled command, she fell in a dead swoon
when she looked upon the pallid face of Graydon Bansemer. She had
gone eagerly from one pallet to another, coming upon his near the
last. One glance was enough. His face had been in her mind for
months--just as she was seeing it now; she had lived in the horror
of finding him cold in death.

It was Teresa Velasquez who first understood. She knew that
Bansemer's one woman had found him at last. Her heart leaped with
hatred for one brief instant, then turned soft and contrite. If she
had learned to care for the big American herself during the hard
days when he had been so tender, she also had learned that her
worship was hopeless. She had felt his yearning love for another;
now she was looking upon that other. While the attendants were
bending over their unconscious companion, the Spanish girl stood
guard over the man who had been her guardian, the man whose life
was going out before her miserable, exhausted eyes.

Jane Cable stirred with returning life; Teresa was quick to see that
words not medicine would act as the restorative. She went swiftly
to the American girl's side and, clasping her hands, cried sharply
into her half conscious ears:

"He is not dead! He is alive! He needs you!"

The effect was magical. Life leaped into Jane's eyes, vigour into
her body. She recovered from the swoon as mysteriously as she had
succumbed to it. Her sudden breakdown had puzzled her companions.
It is true that she was new in the service; she had seen but little
of death and suffering; but, with all that, she was known to possess
remarkable strength of purpose and fortitude. That she should
collapse almost at the outset of her opportunities was the source
of wonder and no little contempt among her fellow workers. The
words of the strange girl in men's clothing opened the way to smart
surmises.  It was not long before everyone in the command knew
that the "beautiful Red Cross nurse" was not wearing the garb of
the vocation for the sake of humanity alone--in fact, it was soon
understood that she did not care a straw for the rest of mankind
so long as Graydon Bansemer needed her ministrations.

Ignoring the principles of the cause she served, she implored the
doctors to confine their efforts to one man among all of them who
suffered; she pleaded and stormed in turn, finally offering fabulous
bribes in support of her demands. For the time being, she was
half crazed with fear and dread, woefully unworthy of her station,
partially divorced from reason.

The more desperately wounded were left in the village with an
adequate guard, the rest of the command departing with Major March.
A temporary hospital was established in the convent. There were
two doctors and four or five nurses, with a dozen soldiers under
command of Lieutenant Bray. It was while the apparently dead Bansemer
was being moved to the improvised hospital that Jane presented
herself, distraught with fear, to the young Southerner who had
so plainly shown his love for her. She pleaded with him to start
at once for Manila with the wounded, supporting her extraordinary
request with the opinion that they could not receive proper care
from the two young surgeons. Bray was surprised and distressed; he
could not misunderstand her motive.

He had gone on caring for her without suspecting that there was
or had been another man; she had not confided in him during those
weary, pleasant months since they left San Francisco behind them.
To learn the true situation so suddenly and unexpectedly stunned
his sensibilities; he found difficulty in grasping the importance
of the change an hour or two had made. He had fought valiantly,
even exultantly, in the Pass that morning, her face ever before
him, her words of praise the best spoils of the victory, should
they win. He had come down to the village with joy and confidence
in his heart, only to find that he was not, and could never be,
anything to her, while the life or memory of this fallen comrade
stood as a barrier.

Bray's hour following the discovery that she had deliberately sought
out and found this stricken private was the most bitter in his
life.  His pride suffered a shock that appalled him; his unconscious
egotism, born of hereditary conquests, revolted against the thought
that his progress toward her heart was to be turned aside by the
intervention of a common soldier in the ranks. Gentleman though he
was, he could not subdue the feeling of exultation that came over
him when she approached with her plea. He knew that it was a base
sense of power that made him feel that he could punish his pride's
offender by either denying or granting her appeal. The attitude of
self-sacrifice appealed to his wounded vanity; he was tempted to
profit by an exhibition of his own pain and generosity.

He went with her into the convent and to the pallet on which was
stretched the long, still figure of Graydon Bansemer. A surgeon
was standing near by, studying the grey face with thoughtful
eyes.  Bray's first glance at the suffering face sent a thrill of
encouragement through his veins. The man was beyond all human help;
the grip of death was already upon his heart.

Then, the true manhood that had been his, through all generations,
revolted against the thought that was in his mind. The man should
not die if it was in his power to prevent; no matter what the cost
to him, he would give his aid to her and hers. He tried to put
aside the feeling that death was certain--and very soon, at that;
he sought honestly to justify himself in the hope that Bansemer's
life could be saved, after all.

"Leave me alone with the doctor, Miss Cable," he said. She was
kneeling beside the man on the cot. Without a word, but with a
dark appealing look into the Virginian's eyes, she arose and went
swiftly away. "What chance has this poor fellow, doctor?"

"None whatever, sir. He'll be dead in an hour. I'm sorry, on her
account. Strange case. I've heard she belongs to a fine family in
the East. Poor devil, he's got an awful hole in his side."

"Have you made a careful examination? Is it possible that no vital
spot has been touched?"

"We haven't had time for a thorough examination; it was better
not to waste the time on him when there were others whom we have
a chance to save."

"You will oblige me, doctor, by giving him the quickest and most
careful attention. There may be a chance. He is one of the bravest
men in the army. Don't let him die if there is a chance for him.
Miss--er--the nurse--has asked if he can be moved to-day."

"No. But wait; I don't see why, if it will satisfy her. He will
die anyhow, so why not tell her that we will start south with him
to-morrow?"

"It isn't fair. She should be told the truth."

"He'd die, that's all--any way you put it."

"You will make the examination?"

"Yes, in--at once."

"But you--you feel that it is hopeless?"

"Certainly, sir."

"I'm-I'm sorry," said Bray, walking away. The doctor looked after
him with a queer expression in his eyes and then called his confrere
to the pallet.

Bray found Jane waiting for him outside the door; Teresa Velasquez
was standing beside her, holding her hand.

"What does he say?" cried Jane, grey with anguish.

"He cannot be moved. There is no--but little hope, Miss Cable. They
are to make another examination."

"He must be saved! He must! Let me go to him now. I will help. I
will give my life to save his," she cried. Bray stood between her
and the door, his arms extended.

"Don't go in now, I implore. Wait! There may be good news."

"He is everything in the world to me!" she moaned.

"Come with me," whispered Teresa. Bray looked at the Spanish girl,
and a new light broke in upon his understanding. What was this
refugee to Bansemer? The answer shot into his brain like a flash
and he turned cold.

"Miss Cable, I think I understand your anxiety," he said, his voice
trembling. "Won't you let this young lady take you away for half
an hour or---"

"But I am a nurse! Why should I be kept from him? I am here to care
for all of them," she protested.

"You are not fit to do duty just now," he said. "Miss Cable, I
understand why you are here. It is noble of you. I am truly sorry
that there is so little hope." He was leading her away from the
building, leaving Teresa standing there with her eyes fastened
upon the door with a look that could not be mistaken. "I would give
my own life to have his spared for your sake, Jane. Forgive me. I
would willingly give all I have in life for you. But I am afraid
it is impossible to save him."

"Don't say that," she whispered.

"You--you would be his wife?" he asked.

"No, that cannot be. I COULD not be his wife."

"You mean--he is married?"

"No, no! not that. You can't understand. I can never marry him--never!"

Bray struggled for a moment with the puzzle; his eyes went slowly
to Teresa. Then he suddenly understood why Jane Cable would not
marry the man she had come to find. He asked no questions of himself,
but Teresa would have been the result of every conjecture had he
done so.

"He might better be dead," he thought, his eyes hardening. "She's
found him out. Gad, I hope---" but he put it from him.

Graydon Bansemer did not die within the hour, nor that day. The
careful examination of the surgeons gave little additional hope;
it did, however, reveal the fact that no vital organ had been
destroyed or injured. The ball had torn a great hole in his left
side and had gone through the body. Probing was not necessary.
The flow of blood was frightful. There was a spark of life left on
which to build a frail hope, and they worked with new interest.

The attention of everyone was directed to this tragic struggle; the
efforts of all were lent to the successful end. Jane Cable, dogged
and tireless, came to be his nurse, now that the life thread still
held together. It is not the purpose of this narrative to dwell
upon the wretched, harrowing scenes and incidents of the wilderness
hospital. The misery of those who watched and waited for death;
the dread and suffering of those who gave this anxiety; the glow
of spiritual light which hovered above the forms of men who had
forgotten their God until now.

The first night passed. There were sleepless eyes to keep company
with the faint moans and the scent of chloroform. Over the figure
of Graydon Bansemer hung the eager, tense face of Jane Cable. Her
will and mind were raised against the hand of death; down in her
soul she was crying! "You shall not die!" and he was living, living
on in spite of death. The still, white face gave back no sign of
life; a faint pulse and an almost imperceptible respiration told
of the unbroken thread. Hoping against hope!

Dawn came, and night again, and still the almost breathless girl
urged her will against the inevitable. She had not slept, nor had
she eaten of the food they brought to her. Two persons, a soldier
and a girl, stood back and marvelled at her endurance and devotion;
the harassed surgeons, new in experience themselves, found time to
minister to the seeming dead man, their interest not only attracted
by his remarkable vitality but by the romance attached to his hope
of living.

That night he moved, and a low moan came from his lips. The Goddess
of Good Luck had turned her face from the rest of the world for a
brief instant to smile upon this isolated supplicant for favour.
Jane's eyes and ears had served her well at last; she caught the
change in him and her will grasped the hope with more dogged tenacity
than before. The word went out that there was a chance for him.
Her vigil ended when Bray came to lead her away--ended because she
dropped from exhaustion.

The next morning, after a dead sleep of hours, she returned to
his side. The surgeon smiled and the nurse clasped her hands with
tears in her eyes. Bansemer was breathing thickly and tossing in
delirium.  It was as if he had been lifted from the grave.

Lieutenant Bray was seated in front of the convent late that
evening, moodily studying his own emotions. Teresa, still attired
as she had been for weeks, hung about the chapel with the persistance
of a friendless dog. He watched her and pitied her, even as he
pitied himself for the wound he was nursing. What was to become of
her? He called her to him.

"Senorita, they say he is better. Tell me, does it mean much to
you?"

"Oh, senor, he has been noble and good and honourable. If he lives
I shall always hold these weeks with him in absolute reverence."

"Then she does not understand?"

"She? What is there for her to understand? She loves him and he
loves her. That is enough."

"She says she will not marry him. There must be a reason."

The girl's face darkened instantly and her breath came quickly.

"You--you think that I am the reason? Is it so? Because I am here
in these hateful clothes? You would say that to me? How dare you!"

She burst out with tears of rage and shame and fled from his sight.

Jane came rapidly through the church door, out of the gloom and
odour into the warm sunshine and the green glow of the world, her
face bright, her eyes gleaming.

"He is conscious!" she cried. "He knows me!"

CHAPTER XXVI

THE SEPARATION OF HEARTS

When Graydon Bansemer opened his eyes upon the world for the second
time--it was as if he had been born again--he looked up into the
eager, wistful face of Jane Cable. It was too much for her to expect
that he could see and understand at once; he would not know what
had gone before, nor why she was there. His feeble glance took in
her face with lifeless interest. Perhaps it was because he had seen
her in that death-like dream; perhaps his weakness kept him from
true realisation. In any event, he did no more than to allow the
flicker of a smile to come into his eyes before he closed them
again.  Breathlessly, she waited for the lids to lift once more.
She uttered his name softly, tenderly, time and again. As if hearing
someone calling from a great distance, he moved and again looked
upward, the consciousness of pain in his grey eyes. This time he
stared hard at her; his eyes grew brighter and then darkened with
wonder. At last she saw the look of surprise and joy and relief
that she had been hungering for; he knew her and he was beginning
to understand.

If he heard her while she knelt and thanked Ged for this first
great ray of hope, he gave forth no sign. When she turned her eyes
to his face again he was asleep. But she went forth into the day
with a song in her heart.

She looked about for Teresa. The girl was gone, no one knew whither.
Bray alone could say that she had started toward the thicket.
He pointed out the direction, but did not offer to accompany Jane
when she hurried away to carry the good news to the Spanish girl
who had been her staunch helper during the long vigil. Bray shook
his puzzled head as he followed her with his gaze. It had come
to him suddenly that the Spanish girl was not the solution to the
puzzle, after all.

Jane found the slim boyish figure lying on the ground, deep in the
wood. She had been crying and made no attempt to subdue her emotions
when the American girl came up to her; instead, she bitterly poured
out her woe into the ears of the other. She told her of Bray's
insult--as she termed his unfortunate speculation--and she told
how it came about.

"I am a good girl, Miss Cable," she cried. "I am of a noble family-not
of the canaille. You do not believe it of me? No! He had no right
to accuse me. I was a prisoner; Senor Bansemer was my rescuer. I
loved him for it. See, I cannot help it, I cannot hide it from you.
But he is yours. I have no claim. I do not ask it. Oh!" and here
her voice rose to a wail of anguish, "can you not procure something
else for me to wear? These rags are intolerable. I hate them! I
cannot go back there unless I have---"

"We can give you a few garments, dear," said Jane. "Come! You shall
wear the nurse's uniform. We are to start on the long march to the
coast to-morrow. They say that ALL of the wounded can be moved by
that time."

It was three days, however, before the little company left the
village and began its slow, irksome march across the country toward
the coast where the ship was to pick up the wounded men and convey
them to Manila, Native carriers, cheerful amigos since the disaster
to Pilar, went forward with the stretchers, the hospital wagons
and guard following. Travelling was necessarily slow and the halts
were frequent. There were occasional shots from hidden riflemen,
but there were no casualties. Food had been scarce; the commissary
was thinly supplied for the hard trip. Lieutenant Bray grew strangely
morose and indifferent. He was taciturn, almost unfriendly in his
attitude toward everyone.

The little company stopped to rest in a beautiful; valley, beside
the banks of a swift stream. He watched Jane as she moved away
from the stretcher which held Bansemer, following her to the edge
of the stream where she had come to gaze pensively into the future.

"How is he?" he asked. She started and a warm glow came into her
cheek.

"He is doing nicely. If he can bear up until we reach Manila, he
will surely live. Are we going as rapidly as we should, Lieutenant
Bray?"

"Quite, Miss Cable. It isn't an easy march, you must: remember."
After a long silence, he suddenly remarked: "Miss Cable, I've
got a rather shameful confession to make. I've had some very base
thoughts to contend with. You may have guessed it or not, but I care
a great deal for you--more than for anyone else I've ever known.
You say he is to get well. For days I wished that he might die.
Don't look like that, please. I couldn't help it. I went so far,
at one stage, as to contemplate a delay in marching that might have
proved fatal to him.  I thought of that way and others of which I
can't tell you. Thank God, I was man enough to put them away from
me! Wait, please! Let me finish. You have said you will not marry
him. I don't ask why you will not. I love you. Will you be my wife?"

She stared at him with consternation in her eyes. He had gone on
so rapidly that she could not check his rapid speech. Her hand went
to her brow and a piteous smile tried to force itself to her lips.

"I am sorry," she said at last. "I am sorry you have spoken to me
of it. I have felt for some time that you--you cared for me. No,
Lieutenant Bray, I cannot be your wife."

"I know you love him," he said.

"Yes, it is plain. I have not tried to hide it."

"You must understand why I asked you to be my wife, knowing that
you love him. It was to hear it from your own lips, so that I would
not go through life with the feeling, after all, that it might
have been. Will you tell me the reason why you cannot marry him?
He must love you."

"Lieutenant Bray, he would marry me to-morrow, I think, if I were
to consent. It isn't that. It would not be right for me to consent.
You profess to love me. I have seen it in your eyes--oh, I have
learned much of men in the past few months--and I determined, if
you ever asked me to marry you, to ask a question in return. Do
you really know who I am?"

He looked his surprise. "Why, the daughter of David Cable, of
course."

"No, I am not his daughter."

"His stepdaughter?"

"Not even that. You come from a proud Southern family. I do not
know who my parents were."

"Good Heaven, you-you don't mean you were waif?"

"A waif without a name, Lieutenant Bray. This is not self-abasement;
it is not the parading of misfortune. It is because you have made
the mistake of loving me. If you care less for me now than you did
before, you will spread this information throughout the army."

"Believe me, I am not that sort."

"Thank you. Knowing what you now do, could you ask me to be your
wife?"

"Don't put it just that way," he stammered.

"Ah, I see. It was a cruel question. And yet it proves that you do
not love as Graydon Bansemer loves."

"Some day you may find out all about your parents and be happy.
You may have been abducted and---" he was saying, his face white
and wet. Somehow he felt that he was chastening himself.

"Perhaps," she said quietly. "I might not have told you this had
not the story been printed in every newspaper in the States just
before I left. You see, I did not know it until just a few months
ago. I thought you might have read of me. I--I am so notorious."

"Jane, dear Jane, you must not feel that way!" he cried, as she
started quickly away. "It's---" But she turned and motioned for
him to cease. There were tears in her eyes. He stood stock still.
"She's wonderful!" he said to himself, as she walked away. "Even
now, I believe I could--Pshaw! It ought not to make any difference!
If it wasn't for my family--What's in a name, anyway? A name---"
He started to answer his own question, but halted abruptly, squared
his shoulders and then with true Southern, military bearing strode
away, murmuring:

"A name is something; yes, family is everything."

Jane went at once to Graydon. His great grey eyes smiled a glad
welcome. She took his hand in hers and sat upon the ground beside
him, watching his face until they were ready to resume the journey.

"Would it not be better if he were to die?" she found herself
wondering, with strange inconstancy to her purpose. "Why could it
not have been I instead of he? How hard it will be for us to live
after this. Dear, dear Graydon, if--if I only were different from
what I am."

Not a word of his father's conduct toward her, not a word of blame
for the blow his father had struck. She held him to no account for
the baseness of that father; only did she hold herself unfit to be
his wife. All of the ignominy and shame fell to her lot, none to
the well-born son of the traducer.

Fortune and strength went hand in hand for the next two days and
the famished, worn-out company came to the coast. The wounded men
were half-delirious once more for lack of proper attention, and the
hardships of travel. But the ill-wind had spent its force. Bray's
instructions were to place his charges on board ship at San Fernando
de Union, and then await further orders in the little coast town.
It meant good-bye to Jane, and that meant more to him than, he was
willing to admit, despite all that she had said to him. He went to
her when the ship was ready to leave port.

"Good-bye!" he said. "I'm more grieved than I can tell you, because
I believe you think I am a cad."

"Lieutenant Bray, a cad never would have helped me as you have
helped me, in spite of yourself. Good-bye!"

He went out of her life in that moment.

There were vexatious delays, however, before sailings Almost at the
last moment Jane was approached by Teresa Velasquez, now partly
dressed as a Red Cross nurse. The Spanish girl was nervous and
uneasy. Her dark eyes held two ever changing lights--one sombre,
the other bright and piercing.

"I have decided to wait for the next ship," she announced briefly.

"You are not going with us?" cried Jane in surprise and distress.
"What has happened?"

"It is impossible; I cannot go with you. Pray do not ask for my
reason. Good-bye. Will you say good-bye to--to him for me?"

Jane was silent for a long time, studying the eyes of the Spanish
girl.

"I think I understand," she said at last, taking Teresa's hands in
hers.

"It is better that it be ended here," said Teresa, "I have endured
it as long as I can. You have been good to me, and I want to say
good-bye while there is love for you in my heart. I am afraid to
stay near you--and him. Don't you see? I cannot go on in this way."

"Oh, Teresa!"

"Yes, yes, I know it is wrong, but how can I help it? I've loved
him ever since I first saw him--saved his life." Jane was astounded.
The thrust pierced her to the quick.

"Saved his life?"

"Yes, though he does not know it. It was when we were prisoners of
the Filipinos. My poor brother was dying. From the convent Aguinaldo
and his men were watching and directing the fight on the plaza.
They paid no attention to me--a girl. The noise of the fighting
men was terrible, and I climbed up to a window where I could see.
Suddenly, below me, I saw two men fighting apart from the struggling
mass. In an instant it flashed through my mind that the Filipino
was overpowering the other--was going to kill him. Although I hated
them equally, there was something in the young soldier's face--I
could not see him murdered. I seized a pistol that was lying near
me and fired; the Filipino fell. In terror of the deed and fear
of discovery, I ran to my brother. In a moment the Americans broke
into the convent. You know the rest."

Jane was suffering the keenest pangs of jealousy, and asked,
excitedly:

"You--you did that?"

"And finally, when I had learned to care for him and he was wounded,
to have been denied the right of nursing him back to life--my place
usurped by you. Surely, I have as much to be proud of as you and
I love him a great deal more!"

"As much to be proud of---" Jane was saying, for the moment all
the warmth gone from her voice, the flame from her cheeks; but her
meaning could not have been understood by the other who proudly,
defiantly tossed back her head. Beautiful indeed was this
brown-skinned, black-eyed girl, as she stood there pleading her
rights to an unrequited love--a heart already tenanted by another,
and that other, the woman before her.

"Now, can you imagine," the girl went on, "how it has hurt me to
see you caring for him, to see his eyes forever searching for you?
No?" They were silent a moment. A wistful look was in her eyes now,
and her voice unmistakably reconcilable when she resumed: "Ah, he
was so good and true when I was alone with them--before you came! I
pray God, now, that he may be well and that you may make him happy."

"Alas, I am afraid that can never be! You cannot understand, and
I cannot explain."

"Your family objects because he is poor and a common soldier? Yes?"
She laughed bitterly, a green light in her eyes. "If it were I, no
one could keep me from belonging to him--I would---"

"Don't! Don't say it! You don't understand!" Jane reiterated.

"Dios, how I loved him! I would have gone through my whole life
with him! He must have known it, too."

"He was true to me," said Jane, her figure straightening involuntarily,
a new gleam in her eyes.

"Ah, you are lucky, senorita! I love you, and I could hate you so
easily! Go! Go! Take him with you and give him life! Forget me as
I shall forget you both!" And impulsively taking from round her
neck an Agnus Dei which she was wearing, she placed it in Jane's
hands, and added: "Give this to him, please, and do not forget to
tell him that I sent good-bye and good luck."

Jane would have kissed her had not the blazing eyes of the other
forbade. They merely clasped hands, and Teresa turned away.

"My uncle lives in Manila. He will take me to Madrid. We cannot
live here with these pigs of Americans about us," she said shortly.
A moment later she was lost in the crowd.

Jane's heart was heavy when the ship moved away. Her eyes searched
through the throng for the slight figure of the girl who had
abandoned a lost cause.

CHAPTER XXVII

"IF THEY DON'T KILL YOU"

Jane had been a nurse in the Red Cross society for a little more
than six weeks. She was inexperienced but willing and there was
such urgent need for nurses that the army accepted any and all who
seemed capable of development under the training of experts. There
had been tremendous opposition on the part of the Harbins, but in
the end, finding her unalterably determined, the colonel permitted
her to go out in the service. She was sent forth on the special
expedition in the wake of Major March's forces, her secret desire
being to be near Graydon Bansemer in event of his injury. She
gave no heed to their protest that the name of Bansemer should be
hateful to her; she ignored the ugly remarks of her aunt and the
angry reproaches of the colonel. It was more the spirit of spite
than any other motive which at last compelled him to accept the
situation; he even went so far as to growl to his wife: "Cursed
good riddance, that's what I say. I didn't want her to come in the
first place."

But when, after a month, she brought Bansemer back to the city,
wounded almost to death, the heart, of the soldier was touched. It
was Colonel Harbin who wrestled with the hospital authorities and,
after two or three days, had her installed regularly as a nurse
for Bansemer, a concession not willingly granted. Those days were
like years to her. She was thin and worn when she came down from
the north, but she was haggard with anxiety and despair when the
two days of suspense were ended.

Ethel Harbin was her ablest ally. This rather lawless young person
laid aside the hearts with which she was toying and bent her every
endeavour to the cause of romance. It was not long before every
young officer in the city was more or less interested in the welfare
of Graydon Bansemer. She threw a fine cloak of mystery about the
"millionaire's son" and the great devotion of her cousin, The youth
of the army followed Ethel to and from the hospital for days and
days; without Ethel it is quite doubtful if anybody could have known
what a monstrous important personage Private Bansemer really was.

At the end of a fortnight he was able to sit up and converse with
his nurse and the occasional Ethel, Dr. G---, chief of the ward,
remarked to Colonel Harbin:

"He'll get well, of course. He can't help it. I never knew before
what society could do for a fellow. He's got a society nurse and
he is visited by a society despot. It beats Christian Science all
to pieces."

"Do you think he will be able to do any more fighting? Will he be
strong enough?"

"I don't see why. The government won't let him do it, that's all.
He can claim a pension and get out of service with an honourable
discharge--and maybe a medal. He'll be strong enough, however. That
fellow could go on a hike inside of a month."

"I suppose we'll all be going home before long. This war is about
over," growled Harbin.

"No sirree! We'll be fighting these fellows for ten years. Ah,
there's your daughter, Colonel. Good-day."

With the first returning strength, freed from lassitude and stupor,
Graydon began whispering joyous words of love to Jane. His eyes
were bright with the gladness that his pain had brought. She checked
his weak outbursts at first, but before many days had passed she was
obliged to resort to a firmness that shocked him into a resentful
silence. She was even harsh in her command. It cut her to the quick
to hurt him, but she was steeling herself against the future.

When he was able to walk out in the grounds, she withdrew farther
into the background of their daily life. He hungered for her,
but she began to avoid him with a strange aloofness that brought
starvation to his heart. While she was ever attentive to his wants,
her smile lacked the tenderness he had known in the days of danger,
and her face was strangely sombre and white.

"Jane," he said to her one day as he came in from his walk and
laid down his crutches, "this can't go on any longer. What is the
matter?  Don't you love me--not at all?"

She stood straight and serious before him, white to the lips, her
heart as cold as ice.

"I love you, Graydon, with all my soul. I shall always love you.
Please, please, don't ask any more of me. You understand, don't you?
We cannot be as we once were--never. That is ended. But, you--you
must know that I love you."

"It is sheer madness, dearest, to take that attitude. What else in
the world matters so long as we love one another? I felt at first
that I could not ask you to be my wife after what my father did
that night. That was as silly of me as this is of you. I did not
contend long against my love. You have never been out of my mind,
night or day. I was tempted more than once to desert-but that was
impossible, you know. It was the terrible eagerness to go back to
you and compel you to be mine. My father did you a grave wrong.
He---"

"But my father did me a graver wrong, Graydon. I have thought it
all out. I have no right to be alive, so what right have I to be
any man's wife?"

"Nonsense, dearest. You are alive, and you live for me, as I do
for you. You have saved my life; you must save my love. These last
few weeks have knit our lives together so completely that neither
of us has the right to change God's evident purpose. I love you
for yourself, Jane. That is enough. There has not been an instant
in which I have felt that any circumstance could alter my hope to
marry you. You say; you have no name. You forget that you may have
mine, dearest--and it is not much to be proud of, I fear, in the
light of certain things. You must be my wife, Jane."

"I cannot, Graydon. That is final. Don't! Don't plead, dear. It
will not avail. Look into my eyes. Don't you see that I mean it,
Graydon?"

"By Heaven, Jane, your eyes are lying to me. You can't mean what
is back of them. It's cruel--it's wrong."

"Hush! you must not become excited. You are far from strong, and
I am still your nurse. Be---"

"You are my life--you are everything. I can't give you up It's
ridiculous to take this stand. Be sensible. Look at it from my
point of view."

"There is only one point of view and love has nothing to do with
it.  Come, let us talk of something else. Have you heard from
your--your father? Does he know you've been injured?"

He looked long into her tense face and then muttered, with the
sullen despair of the sick: "I don't know. I've had no word from
anyone."

"The despatches have doubtless given your name. One of the Chicago
correspondents was talking about you recently. Your father will
surely write to you now."

"Are you eager to have him do so? I should think you'd hate his
name. I can't help caring for dad, Jane. I tried to curse him one
time, but he really has been good to me. I don't see how he can
have done the things they say he's done."

"There may be a mistake."

"That's good of you, dear, but you forget your mother's statements
and all that Rigby says--all that. Oh, I've gone over all of it,
and I am convinced. I wonder what has become of him. He was afraid
of--of--well, there was talk of an arrest before I left. I have not
looked at a newspaper since I saw the headlines that awful morning.
God, how they must have hurt you!"

"I, too, have not looked at a newspaper since then, Graydon," she
said simply. He smiled wearily and there was response in her eyes.

He took her hand in his and they sat silently side by side on the
bench for half an hour, their thoughts far away but of one another.

"Graydon," she said at last, "are you going to remain in the army?"

"No, I am through with it. My discharge is to be recommended. I'm
disabled."

"You will be as strong as ever, dear."

"Do you want me to stick to the army? I am only a private."

"You can do greater things out in the world, I know. You will be
a great man if you don't lose heart, Graydon."

"I can't be a soldier, dear, and support a wife on the pay I get,"
he said with a smile.

"You shouldn't marry,"

"But I am going to marry," he said.

"I have decided to become a nurse. It is my intention to give my
whole life to---"

"The Red Cross?"

"No. The hospitals at home--the hospitals for the poor and homeless."

Ethel Harbin was coming through the grounds toward them. Her face
was clouded by a dark frown and she was visibly excited.

"It's all off," she announced as she came up.

"Where is the usual hero?" asked Graydon.

"I'm through with the real army. They've dismissed me. That is father
and mother have. They are driving me into the Salvation Army," she
exclaimed, seating herself beside Graydon. "I wish I were Jane and
my own mistress."

"Dear me, Ethel, what an ambition!" said Jane. "What has happened
to upset you so?"

"Father has."

"I should have asked who, not what."

"I suppose they expect me to marry a Salvation Army man. They say
Harry isn't good enough. I think he is a very moral young man."

"Harry? Who is Harry?"

"Why, haven't you heard? Harry Soper. I'm engaged to him."

"The lieutenant?"

"Certainly. He's going to be promoted, though, if he ever gets on
the firing line. It's not his fault that he has to do duty in the
walled city. He's aching to get out and fight. But father---" Here
she paused, her lips coming together with a firmness that boded
ill.

"Colonel Harbin doesn't approve?"

"No--he says Harry is a 'little pup.' It's outrageous, Jane."

"Don't cry, dear. The world is full of men."

"Not for me," said Ethel dolefully. "I've picked Harry out of a
hundred or more and I think my discrimination ought to be considered.
I'm the one to be satisfied. Father has no---"

"But how about that young fellow back in New York? You used to say
he was the only one."

"He is the only one in New York. But look how far off he is! It
takes weeks for his letters to get to me."

"But he writes every day."

"Harry telephones every day. I tell you, Jane, the voice has a good
deal to do with it. You like to HEAR a fellow say nice things. It
beats ink all to pieces. It will go hard with him, perhaps, but
he's young. He'll get over it."

"You are young, too. That is why you have gotten over George."

"I'm not as young as I was. But I've decided on Harry. If father
doesn't let us get married right away, I'm liable to get over
him, too. It's silly doing that all the time; one might never get
married, you know. But father is firm. He says I can't, and he
says he'll kick Harry into the middle of next summer. Father says
I shall not marry into the regular army. He says they don't make
good husbands. I've got the joke on him, though. He appealed to
mother, and she forgot herself and said the same thing. They were
quarrelling about it when I left the hotel. It was an awful jar to
father. For two cents I'd elope with Harry."

"It would be pretty difficult for an officer on duty to elope,
don't you think?" asked Graydon, amused.

"Not if he loved the girl. He does, too. But I haven't told you
the worst. Mother says I am being absolutely spoiled out here in
Manila, and she says flatly, that she's going to take me back to
the States.  Isn't it awful?"

"Back to the fellow in New York?" smiled Jane encouragingly.

Ethel thought for a moment and a dear little smile came into her
troubled eyes.

"I hope he hasn't gone and fallen in love with some other girl,"
she said.

It was true, as Jane soon learned, that Mrs. Harbin had concluded
to return to the United States with Ethel. Jane's aunt had grown
immeasurably tired of Manila--and perhaps a little more tired of the
Colonel. It was she who aroused the Colonel's antipathy to little
Lieutenant Soper. She dwelt upon the dire misfortune that was
possible if Ethel continued to bask in the society of "those young
ninnies." The Colonel developed a towering rage and a great fear
that Ethel might become fatally contaminated before she could
be whisked off of the island. It was decided that Mrs. Harbin and
Ethel should return to the United States soon after the first of
March, to take up their residence in New York City.

"Mother wants to be a soldier's widow--on parole," sniffed Ethel,
almost audibly enough for her father's ears.

Mrs. Harbin at once informed Jane that she was expected to return
with them. She demurred at first, purely for the sake of appearances,
but in the end agreed to tender her resignation to the Red Cross
society. The knowledge that Graydon Bansemer's discharge was soon
forthcoming and that he intended to return to America in the spring
had more to do with this decision than she was willing to admit.
She therefore announced her ambition to become a trained nurse and
gave no heed to Mrs. Harbin's insinuating smile.

Letters, of late, from Mrs. Cable, had been urging her to return to
Chicago; David Cable was far from well--breaking fast--and he was
wearing out his heart in silent longing for her return. He wrote to
her himself that he expected to retire from active business early
in the year, and that his time and fortune from that day on would
be devoted to his family. He held out attractive visions of travel,
of residence abroad, of endless pleasure which they could enjoy
together.

Jane had written to them that she would not live in Chicago--any
place else in the world, she said--and they understood. There was
no word of James Bansemer in all these letters. She was always
daughter to them and they were father and mother.

Graydon Bansemer one day received three letters--all from Chicago.
He knew the handwriting on the envelope of each. Three men had
written to him, his father, Elias Droom, and Rigby. A dark scowl
came over his face as he looked at the Rigby envelope. It was the
first letter that he opened and read. Jane was sitting near by
watching the expression on his face.

"It's from Rigby," he said as he finished.

"What does he say?" she asked anxiously.

"He says he is my devoted friend for life," replied Graydon bitterly.
"I can't forget, though, Jane. He is not the sort of friend I want."

"He thought it was for the best, Graydon."

"Yes, and he may have thought he was my friend, too. This letter
says as much. But I like an enemy better, dear. You know what to
expect of an enemy at all times. Here's one from Elias Droom--old
Elias." Droom scrawled a few words of cheer to the young soldier,
urging him not to re-enlist, but to come home, at the end of
his two years. He enclosed a letter from Mr. Clegg, in which that
gentleman promised to put Graydon in charge of their New York office,
if he would take the place. This news sent his spirits bounding.
Tears of a gratefulness he never expected to feel sprang to his
eyes. Jane's happiness was a reflection of his own.

James Bansemer's letter was not read aloud to Jane. When he had
finished the perusal of the long epistle he folded it and stuck
it away in his pocket. His eyes seemed a bit wistful and his face
drawn, but there was no word to let her know what had been written
by the man who had denounced her.

"He is well," was all he said. He did not tell her that his father
had urged him to go into business in the Philippines, saying that
he would provide ample means with which to begin and carry on any
enterprise he cared to exploit. One paragraph cut Graydon to the
quick:

"I'd advise you to steer clear of Chicago. If they don't kill you
in the Philippines, you're better off there. They hate us here."

CHAPTER XXVIII

HOMEWARD BOUND

Early in March a great transport sailed from Manila Bay, laden with
sick and disabled soldiers--the lame, the healthless and the mad.
It was not a merry shipload, although hundreds were rejoicing in the
escape from the hardships of life in the islands. Graydon Bansemer
was among them, weak and distrustful of his own future--albeit
a medal of honour and the prospect of an excellent position were
ahead of him. His discharge was assured. He had served his country
briefly, but well, and he was not loath to rest on his insignificant
laurels and to respect the memory of the impulse which had driven
him into service. In his heart he felt that time would make him as
strong as ever, despite the ugly scar in his side. It was a question
with him, however, whether time could revive the ambition that had
been smothered during the first days of despair. He looked ahead
with keen inquiry, speculating on the uncertain whirl of fortune's
wheel.

Jane was obduracy itself in respect to his pleadings. A certain
light in her eyes had, at last, brought conviction to his soul. He
began to fear--with a mighty pain--that she would not retreat from
the stand she had taken.

She went on board with Mrs. Harbin and Ethel. There were other
wives on board who had found temporary release from irksome but
voluntary enlistment. Jane's resignation from the Red Cross society
deprived her of the privileges which would have permitted her to
see much of Graydon. They were kept separated by the transport's
regulations; he was a common soldier, she of the officer's mess.
The restrictions were cruel and relentless. They saw but little of
one another during the thirty days; but their thoughts were busy
with the days to come.  Graydon grew stronger and more confident
as the ship forged nearer to the Golden Gate; Jane more wistful
and resigned to the new purpose which was to give life another
colouring, if possible. They were but one day out from San Francisco
when he found the opportunity to converse with her as she passed
through the quarters of the luckless ones.

"Jane, I won't take no for an answer this time," he whispered
eagerly; "you must consent. Do you want to ruin both of our lives?"

"Why will you persist, Graydon? You know I cannot--"

"You can. Consider me as well as yourself. I want you. Isn't that
enough? You can't ask for more love than I will give. To-morrow
we'll be on shore. I have many things to do before I am at liberty
to go my way. Won't you wait for me? It won't be long. We can be
married in San Francisco. Mr. and Mrs. Cable are to meet you. Tell
them, dearest, that you want to go home with me. The home won't be
in Chicago; but it will be home just the same."

"Dear Graydon, I am sorry--I am heartsick. But I cannot--I dare
not."

Graydon Bansemer was a man as well as a lover. He gave utterance
to a perfectly man-like expression, coming from the bottom of his
tried soul:

"It's damned nonsense, Jane!" He said it so feelingly that she
smiled even as she shook her head and moved away. "I'll see you
to-morrow on shore?" he called, repentant and anxious.

"Yes!"

The next day they landed. Graydon waved an anxious farewell to
her as he was hurried off with the lame, the halt, and the blind.
He saw David Cable and his wife on the pier and, in spite of
himself, he could not repel an eager, half-fearful glance through
the crowd of faces. Although he did not expect his father to meet
him, he dreaded the thought that he might be there, after all. To
his surprise, as he stood waiting with his comrades, he saw David
Cable turn suddenly, and, after a moment's hesitation, wave his
hand to him, the utmost friendship in his now haggard face. His
heart thumped joyously at this sign of amity.

As the soldiers moved away, Cable paused and looked after him, a
grim though compassionate expression in his eyes. He and Jane were
ready to confront the customs officers.

"I wonder if he knows about his father," mused he. Jane caught her
breath and looked at him with something like terror in her eyes.
He abruptly changed the subject, deploring his lapse into the past
from which they were trying to shield her.

The following morning Graydon received a note from Cable, a frank
but carefully worded message, in which he was invited to take the
trip East in the private car of the President of the Pacific, Lakes
& Atlantic. Mrs. Cable joined her husband in the invitation; one of
the sore spots in Graydon's conscience was healed by this exhibition
of kindness. Moreover, Cable stated that his party would delay
departure until Graydon's papers were passed upon and he was free
from red tape restrictions.

The young man, on landing, sent telegrams to his father and Elias
Droom, the latter having asked him to notify him as soon as he
reached San Francisco. Graydon was not a little puzzled by the fact
that the old clerk seemed strangely at variance with his father,
in respect to the future. In both telegrams, he announced that he
would start East as soon as possible.

There was a letter from Droom awaiting him at headquarters. It was
brief, but it specifically urged him to accept the place proposed
by Mr. Clegg, and reiterated his pressing command to the young man
to stop for a few days in Chicago. In broad and characteristically
uncouth sentences, he assured him that while the city held no
grudge against him, and that the young men would welcome him with
open arms--his groundless fears to the contrary--he would advise
him to choose New York. There was one rather sentimental allusion
to "old Broadway" and another to "Grennitch," as he wrote it. In
conclusion, he asked him to come to the office, which was still in
the U----Building, adding that if he wished to avoid the newspaper
men he could find seclusion at the old rooms in Wells Street.
"Your father," he said, "has given up his apartment and has taken
lodgings. I doubt very much if he will be willing to share them
with you, in view of the position he has assumed in regard to your
future; although he says you may always call upon him for pecuniary
assistance." A draft for five hundred dollars was enclosed with
the letter.

Graydon was relieved to find that there would be no irksome delay
attending his official discharge. When he walked out a "free man,"
as he called it, a gentlemanly pension attorney locked arms with
him, and hung on like a leech, until the irritated soldier shook
him off with less consideration than vigour.

He went directly to the Palace Hotel, where he knew the Cables were
stopping. David Cable came down in response to his card. The two
men shook hands, each eyeing the other inquiringly for an instant.

"I want you to understand, Graydon, that I am your friend. Nothing
has altered my esteem for you."

"Thank you, Mr. Cable. I hardly expected it."

"I don't see why, my boy. But, we'll let all that pass. Mrs. Cable
wants to see you."

"Before we go any farther I want to make myself clear to you. I
still hope to marry Jane. She says she cannot become my wife. You
understand why, sir. I only want to tell you that her objections
are not objections to me. She is Jane and I love her, sir, because
she is."

"I hope you can win her over, Graydon. She seems determined,
however, and she is unhappy. You can't blame her, either. If there
were base or common blood in her, it wouldn't make much difference
to her pride. But she's made of other material. She's serious about
it and I am sensible enough to get her point of view. She wouldn't
want to marry you with the prospect of an eternal shadow that
neither of you could get off of your minds. I sometimes wish that
I knew who were her parents."

"It doesn't matter, so far as I am concerned."

"I know, my boy, but she is thinking of the heritage that comes
down from her mother to her. You'll never know how it hurt me to
find that I had no daughter. It hurts her worse a thousandfold to
learn that she has no mother. I trust it may not happen that you
will lose her as a wife."

"If I really thought I couldn't win her, sir, it would ruin my
ambition in life. She loves me, I'm sure."

"By the way, Clegg tells me he has offered you the New York office.
It is a splendid chance for you. You will take it, of course."

"I expect to talk it over with Mr. Clegg when I get to Chicago."

"Come up to our apartments. Oh, pardon me, Graydon, I want to ask
you if you have sufficient money to carry you through? I know the
pay of a private is not great--"

"Thank you. I have saved nearly all of it. My father has sent me
a draft for five hundred. I don't expect to use it, of course."

"Your father?" asked Cable, with a quick, searching look.

"And then I did save something in Chicago, strange as it may seem,"
said Bansemer, with a smile. "I have a few of your five per cents.
I trust the road is all right?"

The Cables left San Francisco on the following day, accompanied by
the Harbins and Graydon Bansemer. There was no mistaking the joy
which lay under restraint in the faces and attitude of the Cables.
David Cable had grown younger and less grey, it seemed, and his
wife was glowing with a new and subdued happiness. Graydon, sitting
with the excited Ethel--who was rejoicing in the prospect of New
York and the other young man--studied the faces of the three people
who sat at the other end of the coach.

Time had wrought its penalties. Cable was thin and his face had
lost its virility, but not its power. His eyes never left the face
of Jane, who was talking in an earnest, impassioned manner, as was
her wont in these days. Frances Cable's face was a study in transition.
She had lost the colour and vivacity of a year ago, although the
change was not apparent to the casual observer. Graydon could see
that she had suffered in many ways. The keen, eager appeal for
appreciation was gone from her eyes; in its stead was the appeal
for love and contentedness. Happiness, now struggling against the
smarting of a sober pain, was giving a sweetness to her eyes that
had been lost in the ambitious glitter of other days. Ethel bored
him--a most unusual condition. He longed to be under the tender,
quieting influences at the opposite end of the car. He even resented
his temporary exile.

"Jane," Cable was saying with gentle insistence; "it is not just
to him. He loves you and you are not doing the right thing by him."

"You'll find I am right in the end," she said stubbornly.

"I can't bear the thought of your going out as a trained nurse,
dear," protested Frances Cable. "There is no necessity. You can
have the best of homes and in any place you like. Why waste your
life in--"