“Do they quarrel?”

“No; it’s only disputing, and bragging, the way children do.  They want her to be an American, but she can’t be anything but a Spaniard, she says.  You see, her mother was always longing for home, po’ thing! and thinking about it, and so the child is just as much a Spaniard as if she’d always lived there.  She thinks she remembers how Spain looked, but I reckon she don’t, because she was only a baby when they moved to France.  She is very proud to be a Spaniard.”

Does that please you, Mercedes?  Very well, be content; your niece is loyal to her allegiance:  her mother laid deep the foundations of her love for Spain, and she will go back to you as good a Spaniard as you are yourself.  She has made me promise to take her to you for a long visit when the War Office retires me.

I attend to her studies myself; has she told you that?  Yes, I am her school-master, and she makes pretty good progress, I think, everything considered.  Everything considered—­being translated—­ means holidays.  But the fact is, she was not born for study, and it comes hard.  Hard for me, too; it hurts me like a physical pain to see that free spirit of the air and the sunshine laboring and grieving over a book; and sometimes when I find her gazing far away towards the plain and the blue mountains with the longing in her eyes, I have to throw open the prison doors; I can’t help it.  A quaint little scholar she is, and makes plenty of blunders.  Once I put the question: 

“What does the Czar govern?”

She rested her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand and took that problem under deep consideration.  Presently she looked up and answered, with a rising inflection implying a shade of uncertainty,

“The dative case?”

Here are a couple of her expositions which were delivered with tranquil confidence: 

“Chaplain, diminutive of chap.  Lass is masculine, lassie is feminine.”

She is not a genius, you see, but just a normal child; they all make mistakes of that sort.  There is a glad light in her eye which is pretty to see when she finds herself able to answer a question promptly and accurately, without any hesitation; as, for instance, this morning: 

“Cathy dear, what is a cube?”

“Why, a native of Cuba.”

She still drops a foreign word into her talk now and then, and there is still a subtle foreign flavor or fragrance about even her exactest English—­and long may this abide! for it has for me a charm that is very pleasant.  Sometimes her English is daintily prim and bookish and captivating.  She has a child’s sweet tooth, but for her health’s sake I try to keep its inspirations under cheek.  She is obedient—­as is proper for a titled and recognized military personage, which she is—­but the chain presses sometimes.  For instance, we were out for a walk, and passed by some bushes that were freighted with wild goose-berries.  Her face brightened and she put her hands together and delivered herself of this speech, most feelingly: