The Challis messenger. (Challis, Idaho) 1912-current, 1919-02-19

ouppUSc i Uluu realize now DlS
you were getting" said Mark penitent-
ly. "But you can't think how glad I
am to see you, anyway"
TITS shame sticking you for years
out in that horrible DESERT" said the
girl. Il 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"
"I've been thinking about as much
myself, Eleanor. But guess the army
got hold of me.'
but 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"
Il 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, 1t isn't the retiring age"
Don't be SO absurd, Uncle Mark |!
You don't look an old man at all. It
was just that your photograph was
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
Is called on for serious work. And
then you'll have your function as our
mascot. you know"
He was surprised ut 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
I mean to try to be what you meant
me to be when you made that cOndi-
ton to the major. How I wish-how
I wish"
Eyes. 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 1
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 hope that i
may be worthy Of him."
"You don't remember anything,
EleanorY"
Eyes. Uncle Mark. I'm sure I do
and yet I've thought so much about it
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 1t. And yet am sure part of It
Is memory"
"What do you rememberY asked
Mark rather fearfully.
swell, Uncle Mark, my first connect.
ed memories are of Major Towards
home, of course. And 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 I seem to have memories. as II
they were pictures"
"What is the fret thing you remem
ber?"
II see a woman lying in a bed in q
strange room. Her face is whittier thar
any face I have known; man sits be
side her, with his head In his hand
and, though death has no meaning fol
me, I am afraid. for I. know that sht
was my mother"
"Was this in Cuba, EleanorY
II don't know, but think so, Uncle
Mark, because remember running tt
the window and seeing a great palm
tree outside, with spreading branches
And there are other cities, and w
seem to 60 from place to place, Away
watching for somebody, and yet, as l
were, hiding from people. I know w
avoid people, but it is an instinct onl,
that tells me so.
"And again am with my father II
the jungle. I don't know how we 60
there, but I see the trees all aroun'
me, and am afraid. We walk on am