The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1918-11-08

IL suppose didn't realize how big
you were getting" said Mark penitent-
~. "But you can't think how glad I
am to see you, anyway"
''It's shame sticking you for years
out in that horrible DESERT" said the
girl. II wish, Uncle Mark, you hadn't
stayed in the army after the war;"
'Why, my dear?"
Because then you could have gone
into business In New York. like Cap
tain Murray and Captain Crawford"
'sTve been thinking about as much
myself, Eleanor. But guess the army
got hold Of me-"
SHUT they haven't treated you right
ly, Uncle Mark. They haven't promot-
ed you for years, and they have
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"
II 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 retiring age"
'Don't be so absurd, Uncle Mark !!
You don't look an old man at all. 1t
was just that your photograph was
taken SO long ago, and didn't reflect
%hnA E,0v n1>a
Sand IL 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
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-
Gle Mark" she answered.
"But. of course, it may never hap
pen."
II suppose not. But If ever it does
mean to try to be what you meant
me to be when you made that condi-
ton to the major. How I wish-how
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 I
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,
Eleanor?"
"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 invented all of
1t, and made myself believe I remem-
bered it. And yet am sure part Of it
is memory"
''What do you remember?" asked
Mark rather fearfully.
swell, Uncle Mark, my first connect
ed memories are Of Major Towards
home, of course. And I 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 seem to have memories, as If
they were pictures"
"What is the first thing you remem-
ber?"
II see a woman lying In q bed in
strange room. Her face is whittier than
any face have known; man sits be-
side her, with his head in his hand.
and, though death has no meaning for
me, I am afraid, for I know that she
was my mother"
'Was this in Cuba, Eleanor2"
II don't know, but I think so, Uncle
Mark, because I remember running to
the window and seeing a 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 it
were, hiding from people. / know we
avoid people, but 1t is an instinct only
that tells me so.
"And again / am with my father in
the jungle. I don't know how we got
there, but I see the trees all around
me, and am afraid. We walk on and