dy of rank; she insubordinates me, she makes mockery
of my position as head of her house. She teach her parrot to cry "Viva
Cuba Libre!" She play at open windows her guitar, songs of Cuban rebels,
forbidden by the authorities. I exert my power, I exhort, I
command,--she laughs me at the nose, and sings more loud. I attend that
in few days we are all the two in prison. What to do? you already know
that her betrothed, Senor Santillo de Santayana, is dead a year ago of a
calenture. Her grief was excessive; she intended to die, and made
preparation costing large sums of money for her obsequies. She forget
all now, she says, for her country. In this alarming time, the freedom
her father permitted her (his extreme philanthropy overcoming his
judgmatism) becomes impossible. I implore you, highly honoured senor and
brother, to write your commands to this unhappy child, that she submit
herself to me, her guardian in nature, until you can assert your legal
potencies. I intend shortly to make retreat in the holy convent of the
White Sisters, few miles from here. Rita accompanionates me, and I trust
there to change the spirit of rebellion so shocking in a young person
unmarried, into the soul docile and sheep-like as becomes a highly
native Spanish maiden. The Sisters are of justice celebrated for their
pious austerities and the firmness of their rule. Rita will remain with
them until peace is assured, or until your emissaries apport distinct
advice.

For me, your kind and gracious inquiries would have watered my heart
were it not already blasted. Desolation must attend my remaining years;
but through them all I shall be, dear senor and brother, your most
grateful and in affliction devoted sister and servant,

MARIA CONCEPCION DE NARAGUA MONTFORT.
_Havana, April 30, 1898._

DEAREST, DEAREST UNCLE:--My stepmother says she has written to you
concerning me. I implore you, as you loved your brother, my sainted
father, to believe no single word she says. This woman is of a
duplicity, a falseness, impossible for your lofty soul to comprehend.
It needs a Cuban, my uncle, to understand a Spaniard. She wants to take
me to the convent, to those terrible White Sisters, who will shave my
head and lacerate my flesh with heated scourges,--Manuela has told me
about them; scourges of iron chains knotted and made hot,--me, a
Protestant, daughter of a free American. Uncle John, it is my corpse
alone that she wil