Dear Uncle John:—Since I last wrote you, telling of our finding Rita, and of her safe delivery to SeÑora Delmonte, things have been happening. In the first place, I got a shot in my leg, in a skirmish, and, as the bone was broken, and it didn't seem to come round as it ought, I came here to be coddled, and am having a great time of it. SeÑora Delmonte is a fine woman, sir. You don't see many such women in a lifetime. She has a little hospital here, as complete as if she had New York City in her back dooryard; all her own place, you understand. Kind of Florence Nightingale woman. What's more, little Rita promises to become her right hand; if she's given a chance, that is—I'll come to that by and by, though. The way that little girl takes hold, sir, is a caution. She's quick, and she's quiet, and she's cheerful; and she has brains in her head, which is a mighty good thing in a woman when you do find it. She and SeÑora Delmonte are like mother and daughter already; and this brings me to something else I want to say. It's pretty clear that Jack Delmonte has lost his heart to this little girl of ours. It began, I suspect, the night he carried her off from the Spaniards; you have heard all about that; and it's been going on here, while a little flesh wound he had was healing. Yes, sir, he's in it deep, and no mistake; and, for that matter, I guess she is, too, though those things aren't in my line. Anyhow, what I want to say is this: Jack Delmonte is as fine a fellow as there is this side of the Rockies; and I don't know that I'll stop there, barring my brother Hugh. This war isn't going to last much longer. By some kind of miracle, this place—sugar plantation, and well paying in good times—hasn't been meddled with; and Jack ought to be able to support a wife, if he puts good work into the business, as he will. He's a first-rate all-round fellow, and has brains in his head—said that before, didn't I? well, it's a good thing in a man, too. I'm not much of a hand at writing, as I guess you'll see. All I mean to say is, if he and little Rita want to hitch up a double team, my opinion is it would be a mighty good thing, and I hope you'll give them your blessing and all that sort of thing, when the time comes.

Much obliged for your letter, but sorry your knee still bothers you. Father has been laid up, too, so he writes; rheumatism. I'm getting on first-rate, and shall be out of this soon. I think a month or so more will see the whole blooming business over, and peace declared. Time, too! this is no kind of a country to stay in.

P.S. Tell Cousin Margaret that J. D. is all right.

My Dear Mr. Montfort:—I wonder if you remember Mary Russell, with whom you used to dance now and then when you came to Claxton in the old days, we will not say how many years ago. I certainly have not forgotten the pleasant partner who waltzed so well, and I am glad to have the opportunity of claiming acquaintance with you. I meant to write as soon as your niece arrived at my house, but the battle in this neighbourhood the day after brought us such an influx of wounded that my hands were very full, and the hasty dictated line was all I could manage. We are now in a little eddy of the storm (which, we hope, is nearly over), and have only a dozen men in the house, and most of these convalescent; so I must not delay longer in assuring you of the very great pleasure and help it has been to me to have Margarita with me. Indeed, I hardly know what I should have done without her the first week, as two of my nurses were ill just at the time when we were fullest. She shows a remarkable aptitude for nursing, which is rather singular, as she tells me that until lately she has been extremely timid about such matters, fainting at the sight of blood, etc. You never would think it now, to see her going about her work in the wards. The patients idolise her, and what is more (and less common), so do the nurses, who declare that she will miss her vocation if she does not go into a training-school as soon as she leaves Las Rosas; but I fancy you would not choose so arduous a life for her.

This brings me, my dear Mr. Montfort, to what is really the chief object in my writing to you to-day. Without beating about the bush, I am going to say, at once and frankly, that my dear son, Jack, has become deeply attached to this charming niece of yours. Who could be surprised at it? she must always have been charming; but the sweetness and thoughtfulness that I have seen growing day by day while she has been under my charge are, I somehow fancy, a new phase of her development. Indeed, Rita herself has told me, in her vivid way, of some of the wild pranks of her "unguided youth," as she calls it,—the child will be nineteen, I believe, on her next birthday!—and we have laughed and shaken our heads together over them. She is far more severe upon herself than I can be, for I see the quick, impulsive nature, and see, too, how it is being subdued and brought more and more under control by a strong will and a good heart. A very noble woman our Rita will make, if she has the right surroundings.

Can we give her these? that is the question; a question for you to answer, dear Mr. Montfort. Jack saw readily, when I pointed it out to him, that it would not be suitable for him to speak of love to an orphan girl—an heiress, too, I believe—without her guardian's express consent. He chafes at the delay, for he is very ardent, being half Cuban; but you may have entire confidence that he will say nothing to Rita until I hear from you.

You can easily find out about Jack; there is nothing in his life that he need conceal. Colonel G. and Mrs. B——, in New York, Professor Searcher and Doctor Lynx, of Blank College, will tell you of his school and college days; and Captain Montfort will, I think, say a good word for his record as a soldier and a patriot. Of course, in my eyes, he is a little bit of a hero; but maternal prejudice laid aside (if such a thing may be!), I can truly say that he is a clean, honest, high-minded man, with a sound constitution and an excellent disposition. Add to this a moderate income (not, I am happy to say, enough to allow him to dispense with work, were he inclined to do so, which he is not), and a very earnest and devoted attachment, and you have the whole case before you. May I hope to have your answer as soon as you shall have satisfied yourself on the various points on which you will naturally seek information? I assure you that, with the best intentions in the world, Jack does find it hard to restrain himself. Let me add that, if your answer is favourable, it will make me as well as my son very happy. Rita is all that I could wish for in a daughter; and I shall try my best to fill a mother's place toward her.

In any case, believe me, dear Mr. Montfort,

P.S. You may ask, does Rita return Jack's affection? I think she does!

Honoured SeÑor:—Your valued letter, containing inquiries on the subject of SeÑor Captain John Delmonte is at hand and contents notified. I hasten to reply with all the ardour of which I am capacious. This young man is a nobleman; few princes have equalled him in virtuous worth. Brave, honourable, pious (though Protestant; but this belief is probably your own, and is held by many of those most valuable to me, your honoured brother among them), a faithful and obedient son, a leader beloved to rapture by his soldiers. If more could be to say, I would hasten to cry it aloud. You tell me, with noble frankness, he is a pretender for the hand of my beloved Margarita; already it has been my happiness to be aware of it. SeÑor Montfort, to see these two admirable young persons united in the holy bondages of weddinglock is the last and chief wish of my life. I earnestly beg your sanction of their unition. In Jack I find a son for my solitary age; in Margarita a daughter, the most tender as she is the most beautiful that the world contains. To close my aged eyes on seeing them unified, is, I repeat it, the one wish of,

My Dear Mr. Monfort:—I have just read your letter to my mother, and I want to thank you before I do anything else. There isn't much to say, except that I will do my best to be in some degree worthy of this treasure, if I win it. I will try to make her happy, sir, I will indeed. No one could be good enough for her, so I will not pretend to that.

She is awake now, so I must go.

Dearest, dearest Margaret:—Why are you not here? I want you—oh, I want you so much! I am so happy, so wonderfully, almost terribly happy, how can I put it on paper? The paper will light itself, will burn up for joy, I think; but I will try. Listen! an hour ago—it is an evening of heaven, the moon was shining for me, for me and—oh, but wait! I was in the garden, resting after the day's work; I had been asleep, and now would take the remainder of my free time in waking rest. The air was balm, the roses all in blossom. Such roses were never seen, Marguerite; the place is named for them, Las Rosas. They are in bowers, in garlands, in heaps and mounds—I smell them now. The rose is my flower, remember that, my life long. I used to tell you it was the jessamine; the jessamine is a simpleton, I tell you. I was picking white roses, the kind that blushes a little warm at its heart—when I heard some one coming. I knew who it was; can I tell how? It was Captain Jack. I trembled. He came to me, he spoke, he took my hand. Oh, my dear, my dear, I cannot tell you what he said; but he loves me; he is my Jack, I am his Rita. Marguerite, will you tell me how it can be true? Your wild, silly, foolish Rita, playing at emotions all her childish life: she wakes up, she begins to try to be a little like you, my best one; and all of a sudden she finds herself in Paradise, with a warrior angel—Marguerite, I did not think of it till this moment; my Jack is the express image of St. Michael. His nose tips up the least bit in the world—I don't mind it; it gives life, dash, to his wonderful face; otherwise there is no difference. My St. Michael! my soldier, my Star of Horsemen! Marguerite, no girl was ever so happy since the world was made. Oh, don't think me fickle; let me tell you! In the South here, are we different? It must be so. I was fond of Santayana; but that was in another life. I was a sentimental, passionate child; he was handsome as a picture; it was a dream of seventeen. Now—can you believe that I am a little grown up? I really think I am. Perhaps I think it most because now, for the first time, I really want to be like you, Marguerite. I used to be so pleased with being myself—I was the vainest creature that ever lived. Now, I want to be like you instead; I want to be a good woman, a good wife. Ah! what a wife you will make if you marry! But how can you marry, my poor darling? There is only one man in the world good enough for you, and he is mine. I cannot give him up, even to you, my saint. I have two saints now; I ought to be a Catholic. The second one is his mother, the Saint of Las Rosas, as she is called all through this part of the island. Marguerite, I must strive to grow like her, too, if such a thing were possible. I have work enough for my life, but what blessed work! to try to make myself worthy of Jack Delmonte, my Jack, my own!

He took me to his mother; I have just come from her. I am her daughter from that moment, she says; oh, Marguerite, I will try to be a good one. Hear me—no! I am not going to make vows any more, or talk like girls in novels; I am just going to try. I loved her from the first moment I saw her grave, beautiful face. She took me in her arms, my dear; she said things—I have come up here to weep alone, tears of happiness. Dearest, you alone knew thoroughly the old Rita, the foolish creature, who dies, in a way, to-night. Say good-bye to her; give her a kiss, Marguerite, for she too loved you; but not half as dearly as does the new, happy, blessed