The spectator., 1918-12-03

1 "I suppose I didn't realize how big you were getting" said Mark penitent- ly. But you can't think how glad 1 am to see you, anyway"
 "lts shame sticking you for years out in that horrible desert" said the l girl. ''I wish, Uncle Mark, you hadn't stayed in the army after the war"
 Why, my dear?"
 Because then you could have gone l into business in New York, like Cap tain Murray and Captain Crawford"
 i've been thinking about as much l myself, Eleanor. But 1 guess the army l got hold of me"
 But they haven't treated you right l ly, Uncle Mark. They haven't promot- l cd you for years. and they have l jumped all sorts of officers over your head. Major Howard was saying so only before he left for Alaska. But, of course, he's out of favor, and he wouldn't have any influence, anyway. It's years since he was in the army" T suppose I'm back number my dear. Some of us have to be. Per hapS I'll get my chance. I'm not thir- ty yet, you know, and thirty isn't con sidered awfully old in the army. At least, it isn't the reti ing age"
 Don't be so absurd, Uncle Mark You don't look an old man at all. It was just that your photograph was 1 taken so long ago. and I didn't reflect that you must have changed" And if ever another war comes I'm sure my experience will count for a lot. And I'll probably have command over Captain Murray and Captain Crawford if ever the National Guard 1 is called on for serious work. And then you'll have your function as our mascot, you know"
 He was surprised at the girls sud den responsiveness to his words. She grew very serious.
 i've often thought about that, Un- cle Mark" she answered.
 But, of course, it may never hap pen"
 ''I suppose not. But if ever 1t does I mean to try to be what you meant me to be when you made that cOndi- ton to the major. How l wish-how l wish"
 "Yes. my dear?"
 That we knew who my father was. Sometimes I think he was only an American planter, perhaps, who lived in Cuba and was forced to flee when the war began. And then again l dream that he may have been a brave soldier who was trying to serve his country by going into the Spanish lines in disguise, and I hope that l may be worthy of him."
 You don't remember anything. Eleauorw
 "Yes, Uncle Mark. I'm sure I do- and yet I've thought so much about 1t that I'm not sure how much of it Is memory and how much is just child's inventions. Perhaps I invented all of it, and made myself believe l rcmem- bcred it. And yet am sure part of it is memory"
 What do you remember?" asked Mark rather fearfully.
 'NVell, Uncle Mark, my first connect ed memories are of Major Towards s home, of course. And l have a very vivid impression of being brought into the dining room and toasted at that dinner which the Major gave to the officers after the war. But before all that l seem to have memories, as if they were pictures"
 What is the first thing you remem- ber2"
 "I see a woman lying in a bed in a strange room. Her face Is winter than any face have known; a man sits be- side her, with his head in his hand. and, though death has no meaning for me. I am afraid. for l know that she was my mother"
 "Was this in Cuba, Eleanor?
 "I don't know, but think so. Uncle Mark, because I remember running to the window and seeing great palm tree outside, with spreading branches, And there are other cities, and we seem to go from place to place, always watching for somebody, and yet, as 1t : were, hiding from people. I know we avoid people, but it is an instinct only that tells me so.
 And again I am with my father In !. the jungle. I don't know how we got there, but I see the trees all around me, and I am afraid. We walk on and