Chapter 10

Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
'Tis but a peevish boy: -- yet he talks well --
But what care I for words?

A week passed in the usual routine of a garrison. Mabel was becoming
used to a situation that, at first she had found not only novel,
but a little irksome; and the officers and men in their turn,
gradually familiarized to the presence of a young and blooming
girl, whose attire and carriage had that air of modest gentility
about them which she had obtained in the family of her patroness,
annoyed her less by their ill-concealed admiration, while they
gratified her by the respect which, she was fain to think, they
paid her on account of her father; but which, in truth, was more
to be attributed to her own modest but spirited deportment, than
to any deference for the worthy Sergeant.

Acquaintances made in a forest, or in any circumstances of unusual
excitement, soon attain their limits. Mabel found one week's
residence at Oswego sufficient to determine her as to those with
whom she might be intimate and those whom she ought to avoid. The
sort of neutral position occupied by her father, who was not an
officer, while he was so much more than a common soldier, by keeping
her aloof from the two great classes of military life, lessened the
number of those whom she was compelled to know, and made the duty
of decision comparatively easy. Still she soon discovered that
there were a few, even among those that could aspire to a seat at
the Commandant's table, who were disposed to overlook the halbert
for the novelty of a well-turned figure and of a pretty, winning
face; and by the end of the first two or three days she had admirers
even among the gentlemen. The Quartermaster, in particular, a
middle-aged soldier, who had more than once tried the blessings of
matrimony already, but was now a widower, was evidently disposed
to increase his intimacy with the Sergeant, though their duties
often brought them together; and the youngsters among his messmates
did not fail to note that this man of method, who was a Scotsman
of the name of Muir, was much more frequent in his visits to the
quarters of his subordinate than had formerly been his wont. A
laugh, or a joke, in honor of the "Sergeant's daughter," however,
limited their strictures; though "Mabel Dunham" was soon a toast
that even the ensign, or the lieutenant, did not disdain to give.

At the end of the week, Duncan of Lundie sent for Sergeant Dunham,
after evening roll-call, on business of a nature that, it was
understood, required a personal conference. The old veteran dwelt
in a movable hut, which, being placed on trucks, he could order
to be wheeled about at pleasure, sometimes living in one part of
the