The winter slipped away, and in April the little camp was to be formed, and the officers were to remain for a couple of months. The thought of seeing Fortescue again, brought the eloquent blood to Betty's delicate cheeks and a new brilliance to her sparkling eyes. The spring came early in that latitude, and the first day of April was deliciously mild. Betty was at work in the little old-fashioned garden of Holly Lodge. She had brought with her from Rosehill many rosebushes and a bed of cowslips and violets. With a garden trowel in her hand, her skirts pinned up, and a red Tam o'Shanter pushed back from her forehead, Betty was busy digging about the rosebushes. Kettle had been of the greatest service in making the garden. That morning he had been sent to the post-office for the mail, and Betty was watching out for him: he was likely to bring her a letter from Fortescue. Presently, Kettle appeared crossing the little lawn, and passed through the garden gate. His shrewd little mind had discovered that when he delivered to Betty a large, square envelope, addressed in a certain masculine handwriting, Betty was sure to smile and open the letter quickly. This happened again, but Kettle was amazed to see Betty's dimple suddenly disappear, her bright eyes suddenly grow sombre, and the color drop swiftly out of her cheeks. She read the letter through slowly, and then stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground and her lips trembling. Fortescue was not coming with the other officers. He had just received orders to the other side of the continent. He had asked for twenty-four hours' leave, which would give him a chance to see Betty for about two hours the next day. He did not know, however, whether he could get permission in time to make the boat or not, but he would do it if mortal man could. He hoped Betty would understand why he came. The girl knew well enough what he meant, but the thought of three thousand miles between them for a long time, brought its pang. The fair day suddenly lost its beauty for Betty. The vagrant breeze seemed to sigh farewell, and the sapphire sky above her would not be long the sky above Fortescue. She was roused from her painful dream by Kettle's voice, and realized that the boy had stood motionless next her for a long time. "Miss Betty," he asked, "what's the matter with you?" "A great deal is the matter with me," sighed Betty, putting the letter in her pocket, and resuming her digging and trimming. What did it matter whether the roses bloomed that June or not? And the violets and the cowslips could not console her for Fortescue. Betty remained a long time in the garden that morning. Kettle followed her about like a dog, every now and then asking anxiously: "Miss Betty, don't you feel no better?" In spite of her sadness and disappointment, Betty was roused out of herself by Kettle's sympathy. "I don't feel any better now, Kettle," she said. "Perhaps I shall to-morrow."