brow,
the three colours painted on my heart. Good night, beloved! I kiss the
happy paper that goes to you. Till to-morrow, and while I live,

Your
RITA.

HAVANA, May 1, 1898.

Not until afternoon goes the mail steamer, Marguerite, only pearl of my
heart. I wrote you a few burning words last night; then I flung myself
on my bed, hoping to lose my sorrows for a few minutes in sleep. I
slept, a thing hardly known to me at present; it was the sleep of
exhaustion, Marguerite. When I woke, Manuela was putting back the
curtains to let in the light of dawn. It is still early morning, fresh
and dewy, and I am here in the garden. At no time of the day is the
garden more beautiful than now, in the purity of the day's birth. I have
described it to you at night, with the _cocuyos_ gleaming like lamps in
the green dusk of the orange-trees, or the moonlight striking the world
to silver. I wish you could see it now--this garden of my soul, so soon,
it may be, to be destroyed by ruthless hands of savage Spaniards. The
palms stand like stately pillars; till the green plumes wave in the
morning breeze, one fancies a temple or cathedral, with aisles of
crowned verdure. Behind these stand the banana-trees, rows and rows,
with clusters hanging thick, crimson and gold. Would Peggy be happy
here, do you think? Poor little Peggy! How often I long to cut down a
tree, to send her whole bunches of the fruit she delights in. The
mangoes, too! I used to think I could not live without mangoes. When I
went to you, it appeared that I must die without my fruits; now their
rich pulp dries untasted by my lips: what have I to do with food, save
the bare necessary to support what life remains? I am waiting now for my
coffee; at this moment Manuela brings it, with the grape-fruit and
rolls, and places it here on the table of green marble, close by the
fountain where I sit. The fountain soothes my suffering heart, as it
tinkles in the broad basin of green marble. Nature, Marguerite, speaks
to the heart of despair. You have not known despair, my best one; may it
be long, long before you do. Among her other vices, this woman,
Concepcion, would like to starve me, in my own house. She counts the
rolls, she knows how many lumps of sugar I put in my coffee; an hour
will dawn--I say no more! I am patien