Maynard swept his eyes over the village. "It is done! Now, Miss Curtis, let's try for the top of that hill?"
"No, no, you have been riding all night."
"Why, so I have! In the charm of your presence I'd forgotten it. I'm supposed to be fagged."
"You don't look it," remarked Curtis, humorously, running his eyes over the burly figure before him. "At the same time, I think you'd better return. Your commissariat wagons will be rumbling in soon."
Maynard again saluted. "Very well, 'Major,' it shall be so," and, wheeling his horse in such wise as to turn Jennie's pony, they galloped off together, leaving Curtis and Elsie to follow.
"It's hard to realize that disaster came so near to us," he said, musingly, and Elsie shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up at the hills.
"There is a wonderful charm in this dry country! I have never seen such blinding sunshine. But life must be difficult here."
"You begin to feel that? I expect to stay here at least five years, providing I am not removed."
She shuddered perceptibly. "Five years is a long time to give out of one's life—with so little to show for it."
He hesitated a moment, then said, with deep feeling, "It's hard, it's lonely, but, after all, it has its compensations. I can see results. The worst side of it all is—I can never ask any woman to share such a life with me. I feel guilty when I consider Jennie—she ought to have a home of her own; she has no outlook here."