The deep colour mantled Mrs. Mackenzie's fair face. "Where's Robert?" she asked hastily.
"Don't know," murmured Beatrice, instantly beating a retreat. "See, Aunt Eleanor."
Out of the mysterious recesses of her pocket, she drew a bag, made of gay calico, with a long string attached to it.
"Very pretty—what is it for, dear?"
"It's for cartridges," laughed Beatrice. "If I ride with the soldiers, I have to bear arms. I've got my pistol—the one Mr. Ronald gave me the day after I came here, and I'm going over to the Fort now, after ammunition."
She seemed to be in high spirits as she pirouetted around the room, but there was an undertone of sadness, even in her laugh. She was half-way to the door when she turned, moved by a sudden tenderness, and came back.
"Dear, sweet Aunt Eleanor," she said, rubbing her cheek against Mrs. Mackenzie's, "you've always been so good to me. Perhaps you've thought me ungrateful, but truly I'm not, and I want to thank you now."
"You've been like a second daughter to me, dear," said the other, a little unsteadily, "you've done more for me than I ever could do for you."
Ronald was waiting for Beatrice on the other side of the river while she was pulling across, and she waved her bright coloured bag at him in gay fashion. "You gave me a gun," she said, "but you didn't give me anything to put in it. I want cartridges."
"How many?" he asked, smiling.