* * * * * It was late in the afternoon when she came out, her eyes still languorous under their drooping lids, and found Ronald sitting alone upon the piazza. "Why, I didn't expect to see you here," she said, in a tone of pleased surprise. "You aren't very well acquainted with me," murmured Ronald, twisting uneasily in his chair. "I'd like to be," remarked Beatrice, with a winning smile. "Now's your chance, then, for I'm going to stay here until six o'clock." "That's a long time," sighed the girl, with a sidelong glance at him. "It isn't much after four now." He cleared his throat and coloured deeply. While he was casting about for a suitable reply, Forsyth appeared with his book. "Come and read to us, Cousin Rob," said Beatrice, sweetly. Ronald looked daggers at him when he hesitated. "Can't," he answered shortly; "I'm going to read to myself." He went back to his place under the poplars, in sight, but not intentionally within hearing, and Ronald was unreasonably vexed with him, deeming him outside the spirit, though within the letter of the bond. "I'm sorry he wouldn't read to us," observed Beatrice. "Cousin Rob has such a deep, melodious voice, don't you think so?" The Ensign was writhing inwardly, but managed to say, "Yes; very deep." Mackenzie came out and wasted half of a precious hour in talking, though Ronald answered only in monosyllables. Beatrice exerted her rarest powers of entertainment for her uncle's benefit, and he did not notice how the time passed. "Well," he said, at length, "I guess I'll go across for a bit. I want to see the Captain." Forsyth joined him at the gate, and Ronald heaved a sigh of relief when they were safely on their way to the Fort. "Your face is red, Mr. Ronald," said Beatrice. She was rewarded by seeing the colour deepen. "What makes it that way?" she asked, with the air of one pursuing a subject of scientific interest. "It's the heat," explained the Ensign, miserably; "didn't you know it was hot?" She shook her head. "I never know anything unless I'm told." "I believe you," he growled. "Mr. Ronald," she said, with a bewildering smile, "what makes you so cross to me?" "I--I'm not," he answered thickly. "Yes, you are--you're dreadfully cross to me, but you seem to get on all right with everybody else. I don't believe you like me!" The last remnant of his self-control deserted him. "No, I don't," he said, hotly. "Good God, Beatrice, I love you--can't you see that? Why do you torture me all the time?" Her face grew a shade paler, and her eyes refused to meet his. She knew she had been playing with fire, but none the less was surprised at the natural result, and was genuinely sorry that she had gone so far. She stared at the Fort, unseeing, and inwardly reproached herself bitterly. "Beatrice!" he gasped. "Say something to me, can't you?" She pointed to a cloud of dust in the south-west. "Look, some one is coming!"