"The doctor and the steward are both at home just now, Miss Wren,"
said Blakely. "May I offer you a chair?"
Miss Wren preferred to stand.
"I wish to speak with Steward Griffin," said she again. "Can you go
for him?" this time obviously limiting her language to the attendant
himself, and carefully excluding Mr. Blakely from the field of her
recognition. The attendant dumbly shook his head. So Aunt Janet tried
again.
"Norah, _you_ know where the steward lives, will you--" But Blakely
saw rebellion awake again in Ireland and interposed.
"The steward shall be here at once, Miss Wren," said he, and tiptoed
away. The lady's doubtful eye turned and followed him a moment, then
slowly she permitted herself to enter. Griffin, heading for the
dispensary at the moment and apprised of her visit, came hurrying in.
Blakely, pondering over the few words Mullins had faintly spoken,
walked slowly over toward the line. His talk with Graham had in a
measure stilled the spirit of rancor that had possessed him earlier in
the day. Graham, at least, was stanch and steadfast, not a weathercock
like Cutler. Graham had given him soothing medicine and advised his
strolling a while in the open air--he had slept so much of the
stifling afternoon--and now, hearing the sound of women's voices on
the dark veranda nearest him, he veered to the left, passed around the
blackened ruin of his own quarters and down along the rear of the line
just as the musician of the guard was sounding "Lights Out"--"Taps.
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