Forsyth and Ronald were walking back and forth in front of the Fort, talking earnestly. A little apart stood Mackenzie and Captain Franklin, while Indians went in and out of the stockade, apparently at pleasure. "Aunt Eleanor," said Beatrice, thoughtfully, "I read a story once about a girl. There were two men who--who--well, they liked her, you know. They were both good, but there was a difference. One always teased her and tormented her and made her feel at odds with herself, even though she knew he was just in fun. "The other always rested her. No matter how tired she was, or how much out of sorts she happened to be, it always made her feel better to be with him. He was quiet and his ways were gentle, and he knew more about--about books and things, you know. The other one was a soldier, and this one was a student, but he--he wasn't brave. He couldn't help it, but he was afraid." "A woman never could love a man who wasn't brave," said Mrs. Mackenzie. "No, of course she couldn't." "And if a man always teased and tormented a woman, and made her feel irritable, she would never be happy with him." "No; she couldn't expect to be." "Perhaps she had made a mistake about the other one--perhaps he really was brave." "No; because she saw him twice when she knew he was afraid." "Then she shouldn't marry either one." "That's what I thought," said Beatrice. "Which one did she marry?" "Who, Aunt Eleanor?" "Why, the girl in the story?" "Oh," answered Beatrice, colouring; "why, I--I've forgotten. It's queer, isn't it, how people forget things?" "What book was it in?" "I--I don't remember. My memory is poor, Aunt Eleanor. I'm going to my room, now, if you don't want me, and pack up some of my things." Red and white clover blossomed in the yard, where the children were playing, and a butterfly winged its way through the open window, then flew swiftly out again. Mrs. Mackenzie sat by the table with her face hidden in her hands, while childish voices came to her ears in laughing cadence and filled her heart with fear and pain. Then there was a touch upon her shoulder. "Eleanor!" "Why," she said, looking up, "I didn't hear you, John." Her clear eyes revealed a sadness beyond tears. "Eleanor," said her husband, with the muscles working about his mouth, "I can't bear for you to feel so." "I--I'm all right, John. Don't fret about me." "No, you ain't all right--don't you think I know? I've brought you into danger, Eleanor--I see it now, and that's the thing that hurts me most of all. It's nothing to lose all I've got, for that's happened to me before, and I'm only fifty--I can get it all back again, but I can't ever change the fact that I've brought you into danger. I promised before God that I'd protect you, and I haven't done it. I've taken you to a place where it ain't safe."