Yes, he certainly would remember that, and
he would remember the day he had galloped after her and ridden with
her through the Indian village, and again that day when they rode to
the water-fall and the Lover's Leap. And he would remember her face
at night as it bent over the books he borrowed for her, which she
read while they were at mess, sitting in her high chair with her chin
resting in her palms, staring down at the book before her. And the
trick she had, whenever he spoke, of raising her head and looking
into the fire, her eyes lighting and her lips smiling. They would be
pleasant memories, he was sure. But once back again in the whirl and
rush of the great world outside of Fort Crockett, even as memories
they would pass away.
Mary Cahill made no outward answer to the rebellious utterance of
Lieutenant Ranson. She only bent her eyes on her book and tried to
think what the post would hold for her when he had carried out his
threat and betaken himself into the world and out of her life
forever. Night after night she had sat enthroned behind her barrier
and listened to his talk, wondering deeply. He had talked of a world
she knew only in novels, in history, and in books of travel.
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