he hut, was
rating her severely. Was this Manuela's patriotism, she wished to know?
had she not said, over and over again, that she was prepared to shed the
last drop of blood for their country, as she herself, Rita, was longing
to do? and now, when it was simply a question of a little discomfort,
of a few privations shared with their brave defenders, here was Manuela
complaining and fretting, like a peevish child. Well! and what was the
matter now?

Manuela had risen from her despairing position, and was now bustling
about the hut, brushing, smoothing, tidying up, with an air of smiling
alacrity. But indeed, yes! she said; the senorita put her to shame. If
the senorita could endure these trials, it was not for her poor Manuela
to complain. No, indeed, sooner would she die. And after all, the hut
was small, but that made things more handy, perhaps. The beautiful table
that this would become, if she might remove the Senor Don Carlos's
cigar-ashes? There! a scarf thrown over it--ah! What fortune, that she
had brought the crimson satin scarf! Behold, an exhibition of beauty! As
for the bed, she had heard from--from those who were soldiers
themselves, that no couch was so soft, so wooing to sleep, as one of
forest boughs. It stood to reason; there was poetry in the thought, as
the senorita justly remarked. Now, with a few nails or pegs to hang
things on, their little apartment would be complete. Let the senorita of
her goodness forget the foolishness of her poor Manuela; she should hear
no more of it; that was a promise.

Rita looked in amazement at her follower; the girl's eyes were
sparkling, her cheeks flushed, and she could not keep back the smiles
that came dimpling and rippling over her pretty face.

"But what has happened to you, Manuela?" cried Rita. "I insist upon
knowing. What have you seen?"

What had Manuela seen, to produce such a sudden and amazing change?
Nothing, surely; or next to nothing. A ragged soldier had strolled past
the door of the hut; a black-browed fellow, with a red handkerchief tied
over his head, and a black cigar nearly a foot long; but what should
that matter to Manuela?

Rita looked at her curiously, but could get no explanation, save that
Manuela had come to her senses, owing to the noble and glorious example
set her by her beloved senorita.

"Well!" said Rita, turning away half-petulantly. "Of course I know you
are as changeable as a weathercock, Manuela. But as you were saying, if