FOR HONOR.

By a turn of chance a father and son were thrown together in one of the Western frontier posts, the father as colonel in command, the son as a second lieutenant in one of the four companies quartered there. When the order came which had brought them together after the three years which had gone by since the boy left West Point, it brought great, but silent, happiness to the stern and gloomy old soldier, and a light-hearted pleasure to the young man; once more he would be with “dear old dad,” and besides, life must be rather exciting out there, and altogether worth a man’s while. And so he packed his traps in double-quick time, as a soldier must, and was off in twenty-four hours. The meeting between the two was a strange one. Effusive and very gay on the part of the young man, who made no effort to conceal his delight; stiff, even cold, on the part of the old man, whose very heart quivered with joy; and on whose stern and bronzed face a light came which the boy did not even see.

The colonel was not a popular man, hard and cold, rigid in the performance of his own duty, and with little sympathy for failure on the part of his men, he was respected, and, in a certain sense, admired, but not loved; sternly just according to his own light, but narrow and intolerant. With two passions—the exaggerated, hide-bound honor of a soldier who believes his profession to be the only one; the honor of a strictly honest and very proud man, jealous of the slightest stain upon his unimpeachable integrity. The other passion a carefully hidden but almost idolatrous love for his son. There had been one other passion, but she died.

Within a month after his coming, the young lieutenant was the most popular man at the post. He sang, he danced, he rode, and he played cards; he also drank rather more than was necessary.

Within two months it all palled upon him. Deadly ennui took possession of him. The great sunlit barren plains stretched out interminable. There were no Indians even to break the monotony. The iron routine of one day followed upon another with what seemed to him a stupid, trivial and meaningless regularity. So he stopped singing and dancing, and went on playing cards and drinking. Another thing that annoyed him was his father’s suppressed but uncompromising disapproval. Inward the colonel’s soul writhed that his boy should blemish his record as a soldier in this way; he did not doubt his courage should the time come for proving it, but in the meantime to show himself a weak and foolish man was almost unbearable. He could not understand the boy, and he said nothing, which was perhaps unfortunate.

Three weeks went by and the young lieutenant was deep in debt to the captain of another company. A sneering, black faced fellow, who had risen from the ranks; gaining his promotions during the last fifteen years for acts of dare-devil bravery. He was not a pleasant man to owe to; particularly if one was not too sure of being able to pay up when the notes fell due. Another month, and things were no better. It was in the early part of September, and the flat plains stretched out parched and arid, the sun beat down pitilessly on the treeless little post, and the money to the captain had to be paid to-morrow. It was certainly a disagreeable situation. But they played hard and drank hard, and the young lieutenant almost forgot that to-morrow was coming.

Is cheating at cards so rare as this?

But about one o’clock in the morning there was a row, and before many hours the whole post knew what was the matter. It does not take long for news to travel among a few hundred people, particularly so interesting and exciting a bit as this. For this gay young fellow, this dashing young soldier, this son of the stern old martinet of a colonel, had been caught cheating at cards, and was disgraced forever.

The news got round and finally reached the colonel. It was a brave man who told him. He waited an hour, and then putting a pistol in his holster, he went across to his son’s quarters. There was no answer to his knock, so he opened the door and went in. The boy was sitting by the table, with his head buried in his arms. He did not look up when his father spoke, “My son, there is but one thing for you to do. You know what it is,” and he laid the pistol on the table. There was no reply; and the colonel stood silent, straight and stern, but his face was gray, and his iron mouth was drawn. Presently the boy raised his head and looked straight into his father’s eyes. For the first time in his life he understood. “Yes, father,” he said. The colonel stood a moment, and then went out and shut the door. When he was half way across the parade ground he heard a pistol shot, but he did not go back.

Jean Wright.