For a week Miss Priscilla Sanford had been in a state of mind bordering on the ecstatic. For months letters of portentous size, bearing the stamp of a great and powerful organization of Christian women, had been left at her door, and many an hour had that energetic maiden been devoting to correspondence with boards, committees, secretaries, etc., adding much to the burden of the mail orderly, and not a little to his malevolence. A dour and unsocial Scot was McPherson, as he called himself, but there was wisdom in the selection, for Kennedy, his predecessor, was as genial as Mac was glum, and Kennedy's fall from grace was due mainly to his amiable weakness for the opposite sex, a trait that had led to his lingering far too long in the early spring mornings—and many a "storm house"—along the row, and to concomitant complaint. Letters delayed, letters even diverted from their proper destination, had been all too often charged to him, for more than one housemaid, not to mention a mistress or two, was possessed of a devil of curiosity as to the correspondence of many another, and Kennedy was too much interested in all of them to be austere. Not so McPherson. There was not another of his clan, there were but three of his nationality, in the entire garrison, for seldom, save under the flag of Great Britain, is the Scot in peace time a soldier. Mac had served his native country in the "Forty Twa"; had come to the States a time-expired man; had met his fate, married, and been bereft and deserted within two years, and, like many another man, he had sought in the profession of arms the peace denied him at the domestic fireside. Uncle Sam employs no recruiting solicitors; he needs none, for the petticoat drives to his ranks more men than he will take. Something of Mac's history was made known to his colonel, and when Kennedy had to be replaced, although Mac had not been a year in the regiment, Stone issued his mandate. "There's the man for the place," said he to the adjutant. "There'll be no peeping and prying with that red-headed Sawny in charge."

Priscilla had not been slow to note the substitution, nor to divine the cause. Priscilla had much disapproved of Kennedy, and Kennedy of her. "That prayin', pryin', pesterin' old maid beyant," he described her to the surgeon's becapped and bewitching Kathleen, the belle of the non-commissioned officers' ball. Priscilla found in Presbyterian Mac a far more promising subject, and was aggrieved and dismayed at her lack of success. McPherson would only stand at salute, frigidly respectful, but as icily impenetrable. Mac scented mischief at the outset. He had heard much among the men about Miss Sanford's kindergarten, the Bible class, the prayer meetings, and her persistent preachings against the Canteen. Now, Mac himself disapproved of that institution, and hearing of this—I fear me Sandy told her, and for motives altogether mischievous—Miss Sanford had lain in wait for Mac, and held him one brief moment in converse at the door. The story of that episode delighted Minneconjou and the minority, let us say, when it was later told in Congress.

"I'm so glad to hear, McPherson," said Miss Sanford, beaming upon him, as she took from his hand the little packet of letters, "that you, too, are one of the right sort of soldiers. Now, tell me why you disapprove of the Canteen," for Priscilla was sending that day another long letter of experiences to the Banner of Light; and the reply came, prompt, unflinching, uncompromising, but—most unsatisfactory:

"Because, mem, ye canna get a drap o' whusky."

And so saying McPherson was all simple sincerity. Bred to its use in the raw fogs of his native glen, accustomed to his modest daily tot even when on "sentry go" at the Castle, or the water gate at Gibraltar, he and his comrades of the Black Watch had been reared in the broad faith that teaches temperance, not intolerance. Their canteen sergeant set the limit, not the pace, and doubtless Mac in 'listing for a soldier in the land of liberty had looked perhaps for even greater license. Beer he called "swipes," and despised. Rhine wine, tasted but once, set his grim face awry, and presently townward. Mac's one peccadillo since joining at Minneconjou was a rantin', roarin' drunk in Silver Hill that cost Uncle Sam three days of his services, and the Highlander three months of his pay. There were fines both military and municipal. In disgust Mac swore off. He "had na use for a consairn that compelled a mon to walk three miles to get a wee drappie—and lose three months' siller."

But Priscilla was undaunted still. She had written glowingly, enthusiastically, unceasingly, of all her efforts to promote the cause of temperance among the nation's soldiery. She had told much of her converts to total abstinence, and little of their backsliding. She had managed, through Blenke and others, to get a transcript of the daily guard report, and the punishments awarded by the summary and general courts-martial. Minneconjou had now a garrison of some eight hundred men, with a big and bustling frontier town only a few miles away. Thanks to the system of the post Exchange and the careful supervision, both of its customers and its supplies, drunkenness had been reduced almost to a minimum. Not one out of one hundred men was in confinement, either awaiting or serving sentence. Not more than ten in two months had been fined for minor breaches of discipline due to drink. Some old topers, relics of the sutler-shop days of the army, were still to be found, men whose stomachs could not be always appeased by mild measures, and demanded the coarser stimulant—in bottles smuggled from town; but every case, however mild, had been made, it seems, the text for one of Priscilla's vivid letters descriptive of the depravity still rampant in the army, and due entirely to the presence of that blot upon Christian civilization—the Canteen.

And well had they served their purpose. In fancied security, knowing that their methods had resulted in the greatest good to the greatest number, the officers on duty with troops had read with smiling tolerance marked copies of Eastern papers detailing the concerted efforts of the crusaders against the post Exchange. Congress had been memorialized. Congress had good naturedly listened to the successive readings of a bill abolishing the system and forbidding the sale of either beer or wine at any military post in the United States. Then, brimful, bustling with excitement, and rejoicing, Priscilla read that her letters had been largely instrumental in winning over certain of the opposition, and that when the question came to a vote the noble leaders of a noble cause would be present in force, and when the House sat, there—there would they sit and watch, and woe betide the advocate of the arch fiend rum that dare vote against their sacred measure. Before the army could realize what was coming, the House sat in judgment on the bill, the Society sat in judgment on the House; its members glanced casually at the subject and fearfully at the galleries and—succumbed. "The Senate will kill it, anyhow, so we might as well make ourselves solid,—it's only the army, anyway," was the expression of one long-headed legislator. Priscilla screamed—squealed rather—in ecstasy over the telegram brought her at breakfast, threw the paper to Sandy and herself into a pas seul that fairly amazed Aunt Marion and scandalized the cat. But, when a week or so later the Senate, too, quailed before the basilisk eyes in the galleries, and the bill went to the President and became at once a law, it is safe to say that, for one memorable day, Miss Sanford not unwarrantably looked upon herself as of infinitely more consequence than the commanding officer.

Then, in the midst of the amaze and bewilderment that fell upon the fort, came sensation. Colonel Stone sent for Sandy Ray, nodded "withdraw" to his adjutant, who closed the door behind him, and then looked up with somber eyes at the pale-faced young fellow before him.

"Your occupation's gone, Sandy," said he sorrowfully. "They've pulled from under us the best prop to order and discipline that ever we had. It hasn't been a square deal. They won by methods we couldn't hope to meet, and,"—drawing forth certain newspaper clippings,—"here are specimens. For your father's sake, I liked you before I grew to like you for your own; but if your father himself were here, and head of the house instead of yourself, I'd have to hold him to account as I must hold you. Read—that."

And Sandy, turning paler still, and quivering with mingled wrath and shame, stood and read somewhat as follows:

At Fort Minneconjou the situation is even worse. We have it from indisputable authority that, so far from seeking to check the evil among their men, officers of the highest rank freely mingle with them at the garrison saloon, and urge and incite them to drink. Is it to be wondered at, therefore, that the sickening scenes depicted by our correspondent are of almost daily occurrence?—that young lads, fresh from the pure influences of peaceful homes, the mother's blessing still echoing in their ears, the mother's kiss still warm upon their brows, are forced to witness such revolting crimes, to hear such ribald oaths, and gradually, through the example of officers seeking doubtless to increase the revenue derived from the sale of the vile poisons they purchase at wholesale from equally vile distillers, and in the hope of winning the favor of these all-powerful superiors, to forget the teachings of home, the prayers of parents and kindred, and to yield to the tempter and become in turn slaves of the soul-destroying habit, helpless victims of rum? How long, O Lord, how long will the representatives of a free and enlightened people continue to sanction such infamy?

"That's one of a dozen editorials," said the colonel. "What most concerns us is the one of a dozen letters on which it is based. Now, look at this." And Sandy read.

Fort Minneconjou, S. D., May 30, 19—.

Editor Banner of Light:

Since My Last, of a Week Ago, No Less Than Seven Soldiers, Men Who, Could They Be Divorced From Drink, Would Be Ornaments To The Service of Their Country, Have Been Thrown Into the Garrison Prison, Or Hauled Before Their Judges,—these Latter the Very Men who advocate and encourage the sale of intoxicants,—to receive their punishment for various crimes and misdemeanors committed while under the influence of drink. And so it goes. They, the helpless victims, must suffer the consequences of the crimes of their officers, who are able to divide each month the profits of their nefarious traffic, and go utterly unwhipped of justice. Only two days ago, speaking of this matter after morning service, one of our veteran soldiers said, with tears in his eyes, "If the Christian people of this land only dreamed what sins were being committed under cover of the devil-inspired Canteen, they would rise up as one man and demand its extinction." But, as I said before, so long as their most popular officers are permitted unrebuked to meet them, and carouse with them, and thereby teach and inspire the young and thoughtless soldier to drink, what can we accomplish? The sights and sounds, the fearful scenes and frightful curses to which I have been witness here, all due to the demon that lurks within that protected rum hole opposite my window, would appall a Christian community—which this is not.

Sandy turned to the wrapper, his lips almost as gray as his young face. It was the copy of a letter from the pastor of a church in a far Eastern city, inclosing five newspaper clippings, and calling upon the Secretary of War to order the instant court-martial and dismissal of the military officers responsible for the abominable state of affairs existing at Fort Minneconjou; which letter the Secretary had respectfully referred to the Commanding General, Department of the Middle West, for "investigation and report," which paper and inclosures that official had respectfully referred to the commanding officer, Fort Minneconjou, with similar demand. Stone had received, read, remarked and—sent for Sandy.

An hour later, as Miss Sanford was sallying forth on "an errand of mercy," as she had usually heard such missions described,—she was going to the post hospital with a fresh supply of temperance tracts and a small box of cherries,—she encountered her cousin at the door, and something in his face made her own lose color. The Dwights' phaeton came bowling down the road at the moment, Mrs. Dwight bowing and smiling bewitchingly, Captain Foster gallantly lifting his derby, for, when others could not wear it, Foster favored civilian dress. Miss Sanford responded vaguely, Sandy not at all. Possibly he did not wish to see. Possibly, said Priscilla to herself, it is that that has so upset him. She hoped, indeed, it might be that, and not that which, almost instantly, she feared. He said no word at all, merely motioned to her to turn back. Priscilla was accustomed to dominate, not to domination, but she saw the look of the father in the stern young face before her. Uncle Will she knew was the mildest of men in his dealings with women, until fully aroused. Then Uncle Will became dangerous, and looked very much as did Sandy now. The first question as he practically backed her into the little army parlor was, "Is mother home?"

Priscilla looked aloft. "In her room," she said.

"Then I cannot—speak to you now," said Sandy. "Colonel Stone has called me to account for one of the five inclosures to this paper. Before I answer we've got to have, you and I, a clear understanding, and before we can have that you must read these, and think over what other slanders you have written."

"I was going to the hospital," faltered Priscilla. "Sullivan's worse—and Blenke's been so queer——"

"The hospital, Sullivan, and Blenke can wait," said Sandy firmly, though his voice was shaking. "Colonel Stone and I cannot. I shall say nothing to mother of this as yet. Be ready to see me here at twelve o'clock. Mother will not be home."

So saying, and leaving in her hands the fateful packet, Ray turned abruptly and left the house, Priscilla mounting slowly to her room.

It still lacked an hour to noon, and she had time to read and to think. It was past the hour at which Jimmy Dwight generally came running in to say good-morning to Aunt Marion, but Jimmy had not come. Out on the sunlit parade a dozen garrison boys and girls were in the midst of a shouting, shrieking, frolicsome game of "Pull-Away," and Jimmy, usually one of the blithest and merriest, was not there. Priscilla had noted this when, from the little veranda of the lieutenant's quarters but a few minutes before, she had been disapprovingly watching the sport—it was so uninstructive, thought Priscilla. She could not, from the window at the side, see much of the parade. Over against it, midway along the barrack line of the northeast front, she could see the Exchange building, could see Sandy more than halfway across, walking even more swiftly, stiffly, than ever. She saw the few loungers and convalescents, sunning themselves on the southern benches, rising to their feet at the approach of the young officer. She could hear the tramp of the two battalions and the majors' ringing commands, exercising, one on the plain to the south where Dwight's squadron disported itself before breakfast, the other out on the parade. She could hear faintly the fine band of the infantry practicing at the assembly room adjoining the Exchange. From the open window of Sandy's room, across the hall, she could have seen the deserted veranda of the officers' club. Half an hour hence it would be swarming with thirsty and perspiring gentlemen in khaki just in from a lively drill. She felt rather than saw what was said in that relentless paper on her dressing table, and she shrank from the opening and reading. Sandy's face had told her what to expect. Sandy's tongue had spoken of slanders—slanders that well she realized, like curses, had come home to roost. She could not say, even to herself, that what she had written was never meant for public eyes. She had hoped—she had meant—it should be published, and that all good Christian men and women, readers of the Banner of Light, should approve and applaud her righteous efforts in behalf of so great and glorious a cause. But it had not occurred to her that the Banner would ever find its way to so godless a community as this at Minneconjou—where her statements might be challenged. She was stunned, temporarily, by this most unlooked-for catastrophe. Uncle Will and Aunt Marion had been her best friends and benefactors, and, even though duty demanded that she should make clear to them how deeply they erred in their attitude on so vital a question as that of the Canteen, she knew, and well knew, that what she had written in the enthusiasm of her faith, the intensity of her zeal, was far from warrantable by the cold facts in the case. She followed Sandy with her eyes as he neared the veranda,—saw the hands of the half dozen men go up in salute,—saw him suddenly turn and, facing west, salute in turn, and then the colonel marched into her field of vision, and the veteran of the Civil War and the subaltern of a few skirmishes stood a moment in conference, then strode away together toward the townward gate and the "auxiliary" guard-house, the orderly following after.

And then she heard her aunt's voice at her door.

"Have you seen anything of Jimmy this morning, 'Cilla? It's strange he has not come," and then cook from the kitchen appeared at the landing. "That young man, mum, Mr. Blenke, would like to speak with Miss Sanford a minute." And, leaving the papers on her bureau, glad of a respite, Priscilla hastened down.

Blenke's big mournful brown eyes had of late been darker than ever, and dark circles had sunk in beneath them. Blenke's sallow face had taken on an even sallower hue. "Nothing but indigestion and lack of exercise," said the junior doctor, of whom Priscilla had made inquiries. "The man spends his leisure hours moping or mooning around by himself. He ought to be made to play ball, tennis, spar, ride, wrestle, or something. He's a day-dreamer—maybe a pipe-dreamer," hazarded he, in conclusion, with a queer look at Priscilla, who had flushed indignantly at the insinuation. Blenke had sorrowfully and virtuously repelled that insinuation the moment she brought it to his attention, but circumstances had been combining to make her uneasy about her paragon. If not a "pipe-dreamer," Blenke was becoming odd and nervous, queer, and twitchy. To-day he came with a plea she had never heard him make before. Blenke, who never drank, gambled, smoked, swore, or otherwise misconducted himself, had come to tell Miss Sanford in the best of language that he had urgent need of ten dollars and two days' pass. The pass his captain had signed on the spot, but he wouldn't stand for the ten dollars. Blenke would tell Miss Sanford all about it on his return, but now there was not a moment to lose unless he lose also the train to Rapid City. Would Miss Sanford help him?

Priscilla had but ten dollars to her name, but swiftly she sped upstairs to get it. The bugle was sounding the recall from drill as she entered her little room, unlocked an upper drawer of the dressing-table, and found the two bills in her slender portemonnaie. The batch of official papers, with the portentous, red ink-lined, third indorsement uppermost, still stared at her from the prim, white-covered top, and impatiently she thrust it into the shallow pocket of the summer skirt and hastened away downstairs. Blenke's eyes were eloquent with subdued sadness, mystery, and gratitude as he received the money and turned away. The children out in front on the parade, with shrill shouting and laughter, had just gone racing away toward the eastward gate, and as their clamor died in the distance Priscilla's quick ear caught the sound of sobbing and a piteous wail for help.

Ever sympathetic with those in distress, she hurried through the hallway, out through the gate and there, crouched at the foot of the little shade tree at the edge of the parade, with blood streaming through the clutching fingers from a slashing cut at the edge of the left eye, was little George Thornton, son of a junior officer of infantry. Priscilla in an instant was bending over him.

"What is it, Georgie, dear? Oh, how did you get so cruel a hurt?"

Sobs and screams were at first the only answer. Clasping her kerchief to the wound with her right hand, and leading the little fellow, half running, with the left, she guided him homeward, where presently a badly frightened brace of women, mother and housemaid, busily hindered her skilled fingers in bathing and bandaging the cut. It was not long before the bleeding was stanched, the patient soothed and comforted and the maid had gone for the doctor. Meanwhile the mother, too, had made her demand, "Who—who could have done this?" And to every such query there was but one answer, "Jimmy Dwight."

"Surely not on purpose!" ventured Priscilla, in the interest of peace, truth, and justice, only to receive with vehement emphasis the to-be-expected answer of the stung, angered, and irresponsible child.

"He did, I tell you! We were racin', an'—an' when I was gettin' past him, he just whacked me with all his might."

The boys had all disappeared, when presently Priscilla again came forth, homeward bound. They had swarmed over to the stables, where some troop horses had broken away from their herd, and were having a hilarious time of it, but one or two little girls were slowly returning, and to the foremost of these Priscilla addressed herself for information. Was Jimmy Dwight with the other boys? Yes, he had only come out a few minutes ago. Had they seen how Georgie Thornton was hurt? They had not. They had started with the foremost, and George and Jimmy had run back after a ball, and so got behind. But presently came Kitty Blair, and Kitty had seen. Tiring of the chase she had dropped out as the last boys went bounding by her, and Jimmy Dwight was swinging his jacket, and he just slashed Georgie Thornton right in the face with it. Yes, she was sure. Millie Cross had seen it, too, and had run home to tell her mother.

Thoughtfully, with downcast eyes, Priscilla retraced her steps. Orderly and mess call were sounding now, and with a start she remembered that this was the moment set by Sandy for her explanation as to the clipping, and, glancing up in sudden fright, she found standing at the doorway, the accusing papers in hand, not her cousin, but her cousin's mother, her hostess and her benefactress—Marion Ray.