“Yes, yes,” huskily murmured the sick man, who also was alarmed by the appearance of the uniform. “Though, like my daughter, I fail to recognize you, sir.” “That is not so very strange on your part,” said the young soldier, as he coolly seated himself on the arm of Mr. Burrage’s seat; “but it is a trifle surprising that Miss Burrage should fail to recognize me.” “You attended the military academy at Fardale?” questioned the girl. “I had that pleasure. Old Gunn hauled me over the coals many a time, and Scotch used to make me toe the mark. By the way, I hear that Professor Scotch is dead.” “It is true.” “Too bad! He was quite a jolly old boy, as we could raise hob with him. Haven’t you recalled my name yet, Miss Burrage?” “No,” she reluctantly confessed. “Why, I was a particular chum to your brother at the academy.” Mr. Burrage stirred nervously. “You were Walter’s friend?” said Inza. “Correct. We entered the army together. Too bad Walter got into that muss. I’ve been stationed in the Philippines. Home on furlough. Suppose I’ll have to go back. Beastly country in some respects. No pretty women there, and women make or mar any country.” There was something about the air of the fellow that did not please Inza. “Well, I see it’s no use for you to try to guess,” he rattled on. “I’m Swift—Roy Swift. Now you remember me?” Still she did not remember at first, but after a time she recalled Swift, whom she had known but slightly among many other cadets at the academy. “It’s strange you should forget me so completely,” he said. “I could never forget you.” He spoke the words in a very significant manner, bending on her such a meaning look that the blood rushed to her face. “I remember the day I first saw you at a picnic in old Snodd’s grove,” he went on. “I’ve always remembered you just as you looked then. I thought you the prettiest girl I had ever seen. Since then it——” “You must have seen thousands of pretty girls,” she broke in, trying to turn his conversation. “Have you had many adventures in the Philippines?” “I have seen more than thousands,” he declared; “but never one of them all as pretty as you were that day, Miss Burrage. This is not flattery; it is the sincere truth. I have thought of you millions of times, and you have ever come to me as a truly representative American girl.” “Thank you,” she said, not exactly pleased by his bold words of praise. “I’m sure you are altogether too complimentary.” “Oh, not at all! I know a pretty girl when I see one! I tell you plenty of pretty girls have flung themselves at me, but I’m still single, you see. In every case, I could not help comparing the girl with one I had first seen at the picnic in Snodd’s grove, and, as a result, none of them caught me.” He laughed and twirled his mustache, his pose being one calculated to arouse admiration. Evidently Roy Swift had lost none of his conceit since the old days at Fardale, when he regarded himself as “strictly the proper thing.”