from MacArthur's
front,--for Mac was hammering at the insurgent lines about
Caloocan,--and Stuyvesant had no objection whatever. Whereupon Mrs.
Brent took occasion to say in the most casual way in the world:

"Oh, you might send a line to Colonel Martindale, dear. You know Mr.
Foster goes home by the Sonoma--oh, hadn't you heard of it, Mr.
Stuyvesant? Oh, dear, yes. He's been ready to go ever since the fighting
began, but there was no boat."

And then she too left Stuyvesant,--left him with the New York _Moon_
bottom topmost in his hand and a sensation as of wheels in his head. She
proceeded, furthermore, to order tea on the back gallery and Maidie to
the front. But tea was ready long before Maidie.

Far out at the lines of San Pedro Macati Dyer's guns had sighted swarms
of rebels up the Pasig, and with placid and methodical precision were
sending shrapnel in that direction and dull, booming concussions in the
other. An engagement of some kind was on at San Pedro, and Stuyvesant
twitched with nervous longing to get there, despite the doctors, and sat
wondering was another engagement off at Manila. Just what to do he had
not decided. The _Moon_ and his senses were still upside-down when Sing
came in with the transferred tea things and Mrs. Brent with the last
thing Stuyvesant was thinking to see--Maid Marion, all smiles,
congratulation, and cool organdie.

Ten minutes' time in which to compose herself gives a girl far too great
an advantage under such circumstances.

"I--I'm glad to see you," said Stuyvesant helplessly. "I thought you
were wearing yourself out at nursing."

"Oh, it agrees with me," responded Maidie blithely.

"I suppose it must. You certainly look so."

"_Merci du compliment, Monsieur_," smiled Miss Ray, with sparkling eyes
and the prettiest of courtesies. She certainly did look remarkably well.

It was time for Stuyvesant to be seated again, but he hovered there
about that tea-table, for Mrs. Brent made the totally unnecessary
announcement that she would go in search of the spoons.

"You had no time--I suppose--to look in on anybody but your assigned
vict--patients, I mean," hazarded Stuyvesant, weakening his tentative by
palpable display of sense of injury.

"Well, you were usually asleep when I cal--inquired, I mean. One or two
lumps, Mr. Stuyvesant?" And the dainty little white hand hovered over
the sugar-bowl.

"You usually chose such times, I fancy. One lump, thanks." There was
anoth