The experience was new to the Ensign, who had come unscathed through many a flirtation, and who had regarded love lightly, after the manner of his kind. He had been the master of every situation so far, but at last he had come face to face with something that made him weak and helpless—as if he had been clay in the potter's hands.
No matter how hot it was, he led Queen patiently twenty times around the Fort in the broiling sun, and never attempted to mount, even when Beatrice was in the house. Moreover, though he would have scorned to rub down his own horse, he often put finishing touches upon Queen's glossy coat after she had been groomed. This gave him an opportunity to go over to Captain Franklin's, still leading the horse, and ask Beatrice how she liked her pet's appearance. Simple and transparent as the device was, it never failed to win a smile for him, and sometimes, too, the girl would linger to feed Queen lumps of sugar and gossip with Ronald meanwhile.
She painted when she felt like it, and did a great deal of sewing, both occupations being fraught with interest to Forsyth and Ronald. Mrs. Franklin was often one of the group, and Katherine made no attempt to efface herself.
They were all sitting on the porch in front of the Captain's house one hot morning, when Ronald appeared with a bowl and a spoon. "Taste," he said, offering it to Mrs. Franklin. Katherine followed her example, then Beatrice, always eager for new sensations, helped herself rather liberally. Robert also partook of the savoury stew.
"Pretty good," he said critically; "what is it?"
"It's poor old Major," replied Ronald, sadly; "the Indians cooked him and let me have some of the remains."
Beatrice gasped and fled into the house. The other women had risen to follow her, when the situation was relieved by the appearance of Major coming across the parade-ground in full cry, with Doctor Norton in hot pursuit.
"I couldn't hold him any longer!" shouted the Doctor.
"You brute!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin.