on Annunzio. There, I rejoice to think that you
will find, not luxury, but at least some few of the comforts of ordinary
life. Here you have suffered; your lofty spirit will not confess it, but
you have--you must have suffered, delicate and fragile as you are, in
the rough life of a Cuban camp. Enough! The day is before you, dearest
senorita. I pray you, while it lasts, make use of me, of all that the
camp contains, in whatever way you can imagine. I would make the day a
pleasant one, if I might. Command me, dear senorita, in anything and
everything. The camp is yours, with all it contains."

He bowed with courtly grace, and Rita courtsied and then turned quickly
away, to hide the tears that would come in spite of her. It was a keen
disappointment. When Carlos told her that morning that she must leave
the camp, she had refused pointblank. A stormy scene followed, in which
the old Rita was only too much in evidence. She raged, she wept, she
stamped her little foot. She was a Cuban, as much as he was; she was a
nurse, a daughter of the army; no human power should drive her from the
ground where she was prepared to shed her last drop of blood for the
defenders of her country. Now--a few kind, grave words from a
gray-haired man, and all was changed. She was not a necessity, she was a
hindrance; she saw that this must be so; the pain was sharp, but she
would not show it; she would never again lose her self-control, never.
Carlos should see that she was no longer a child. He had called her a
child, not half an hour ago, a naughty child, who was making trouble for
everybody. Well--Rita stood still; the thought came over her
suddenly,--it was true! she had been childish, had been naughty. Suppose
Margaret or Peggy should behave so, stamping and storming; how would it
seem? Oh, well, that was different. Their blood was cool, almost cold.
It flowed sluggishly in their veins. She was a child of the South; it
was not to be expected that she should be like Margaret. Yes! but--the
thought would come, troubling all her mind; suppose Margaret were here,
with her calm sense, her cheerful face, and tranquil voice; would not
she be of more use, of more help, than a girl who could not help
screaming when she was in a passion?

These thoughts were new to Rita Montfort. Full of them, she walked
slowly to her hut, with bent head, and eyes full of unshed tears.
Meanwhile, the good General went back to his tent, where Carlos awaited
him with s