Bolland's porch,
and the enlisted men, smoking their pipes on the rail of the
barracks, whispered together. When she reached Ranson's hut over four
hundred pairs of eyes were upon her, and her cheeks were flushing.
Ranson came leaping to the gate, and lifted the basket from her arm
as though he were removing an opera-cloak. He set it upon the gate-
post, and nervously clasped the palings of the gate with both hands.
He had not been to bed, but that fact alone could not explain the
strangeness of his manner. Never before had she seen him disconcerted
or abashed.
"You shouldn't have done it," he stammered. "Indeed, indeed, you are
much too good. But you shouldn't have come."
His voice shook slightly.
"Why not?" asked Mary Cahill. "I couldn't let you go hungry."
"You know it isn't that," he said; "it's your coming here at all.
Why, only three of the fellows have been near me this morning. And
they only came from a sense of duty. I know they did--I could feel
it. You shouldn't have come here. I'm not a proper person; I'm an
outlaw. You might think this was a pest-house, you might think I was
a leper. Why, those Stickney girls have been watching me all morning
through a field-glass.
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