dying face that stirring Sunday morning, told
him of Latrobe's soldier funeral and of General Drayton's presence and
speechless grief; and Billy's hand groped beneath the pillow for that
little blood-stained packet still undelivered. He had promptly caused the
information to be conveyed to the veteran commander that it was his own
lost nephew who had died his soldier death in front of the firing line;
but the packet still remained in his hands; and even before the tiny
thermometer confirmed his views, the keen eye of the surgeon saw that
something had heightened Billy's fever that day; and so, when just at
sunset there came driving into the court the most stylish equipage in all
Manila, and Mrs. Garrison fluttered up the broad stairway and confidently
asked to be announced to Mr. Gray, the steward in charge of the floor was
very, very sorry, but--the doctor had given instructions that no more
visitors should see the young gentleman that day. Mrs. Frank smiled
indulgently, and asked for the doctor himself, and beamed on him with all
her witchery and begged for just a few words; but the suave, placid, yet
implacable doctor said he, too, was sorry--sorry that Mr. Gray was not
able to see any one else, but such was the case. Mrs. Garrison said she
thought if Mr. Gray knew that it was--but perhaps Dr. Frank didn't know
it was she who had nursed Mr. Gray so assiduously at Honolulu. Dr. Frank
did know that and more; but he did not say so; neither did he yield.
There were tears in her eyes as she sprang into her carriage again; but
they were tears of anger and defeat. She dashed them away the very next
instant and smiled joy and congratulation, even adulation, at sight of
the tall, stalwart officer, his arm in a sling, who stood the center of a
staring group as her carriage flashed by. She would have ordered stop;
but while the rest of the party had gazed as they lifted their caps,
Armstrong's uninjured hand performed its duty, his cap had been lifted
with the others, but not so much as a glance went her way; and Margaret
Garrison, bitter in spirit, drove on down past the old cuartel to her
luxurious quarters where Nita, a piteous shadow of the "sweet girl
graduate" of the year before, was awaiting her coming. With the
Insurgents' retreat and the advance of the American lines there had been
a gradual return of the refugees among the transports; and Frost had
finally brought his birdling back to shore; but Nita dare not drive, she