Alison’s brother; married a beautiful young Spanish lady ten years ago, and has never been in America since.  They lived in Spain a year or two, then went to France.  Both died some months ago.  This little girl that is coming is the only child.  General Alison is glad to have her.  He has never seen her.  He is a very nice old bachelor, but is an old bachelor just the same and isn’t more than about a year this side of retirement by age limit; and so what does he know about taking care of a little maid nine years old?  If I could have her it would be another matter, for I know all about children, and they adore me.  Buffalo Bill will tell you so himself.

I have some of this news from over-hearing the garrison-gossip, the rest of it I got from Potter, the General’s dog.  Potter is the great Dane.  He is privileged, all over the post, like Shekels, the Seventh Cavalry’s dog, and visits everybody’s quarters and picks up everything that is going, in the way of news.  Potter has no imagination, and no great deal of culture, perhaps, but he has a historical mind and a good memory, and so he is the person I depend upon mainly to post me up when I get back from a scout.  That is, if Shekels is out on depredation and I can’t get hold of him.

II
LETTER FROM ROUEN—TO GENERAL ALISON

My dear Brother-in-Law,—Please let me write again in Spanish, I cannot trust my English, and I am aware, from what your brother used to say, that army officers educated at the Military Academy of the United States are taught our tongue.  It is as I told you in my other letter: both my poor sister and her husband, when they found they could not recover, expressed the wish that you should have their little Catherine—as knowing that you would presently be retired from the army—rather than that she should remain with me, who am broken in health, or go to your mother in California, whose health is also frail.

You do not know the child, therefore I must tell you something about her.  You will not be ashamed of her looks, for she is a copy in little of her beautiful mother—and it is that Andalusian beauty which is not surpassable, even in your country.  She has her mother’s charm and grace and good heart and sense of justice, and she has her father’s vivacity and cheerfulness and pluck and spirit of enterprise, with the affectionate disposition and sincerity of both parents.

My sister pined for her Spanish home all these years of exile; she was always talking of Spain to the child, and tending and nourishing the love of Spain in the little thing’s heart as a precious flower; and she died happy in the knowledge that the fruitage of her patriotic labors was as rich as even she could desire.

Cathy is a sufficiently good little scholar, for her nine years; her mother taught her Spanish herself, and kept it always fresh upon her ear and her tongue by hardly ever speaking with her in any other tongue; her father was her English teacher, and talked with her in that language almost exclusively; French has been her everyday speech for more than seven years among her playmates here; she has a good working use of governess—German and Italian.  It is true that there is always a faint foreign fragrance about her speech, no matter what language she is talking, but it is only just noticeable, nothing more, and is rather a charm than a mar, I think.  In the ordinary child-studies Cathy is neither before nor behind the average child of nine, I should say.  But I can say this for her: in love for her friends and in high-mindedness and good-heartedness she has not many equals, and in my opinion no superiors.  And I beg of you, let her have her way with the dumb animals—they are her worship.  It is an inheritance from her mother.  She knows but little of cruelties and oppressions—keep them from her sight if you can.  She would flare up at them and make trouble, in her small but quite decided and resolute way; for she has a character of her own, and lacks neither promptness nor initiative.  Sometimes her judgment is at fault, but I think her intentions are always right.  Once when she was a little creature of three or four years she suddenly brought her tiny foot down upon the floor in an apparent outbreak of indignation, then fetched it a backward wipe, and stooped down to examine the result.  Her mother said:

“Why, what is it, child?  What has stirred you so?”

“Mamma, the big ant was trying to kill the little one.”

“And so you protected the little one.”

“Yes, manure, because he had no friend, and I wouldn’t let the big one kill him.”

“But you have killed them both.”

Cathy was distressed, and her lip trembled.  She picked up the remains and laid them upon her palm, and said:

“Poor little anty, I’m so sorry; and I didn’t mean to kill you, but there wasn’t any other way to save you, it was such a hurry.”

She is a dear and sweet little lady, and when she goes it will give me a sore heart.  But she will be happy with you, and if your heart is old and tired, give it into her keeping; she will make it young again, she will refresh it, she will make it sing.  Be good to her, for all our sakes!

My exile will soon be over now.  As soon as I am a little stronger I shall see my Spain again; and that will make me young again!

Mercedes.

III
GENERAL ALISON TO HIS MOTHER

I am glad to know that you are all well, in San Bernardino.

. . . That grandchild of yours has been here—well, I do not quite know how many days it is; nobody can keep account of days or anything else where she is!  Mother, she did what the Indians were never able to do.  She took the Fort—took it the first day!  Took me, too; took the colonels, the captains, the women, the children, and the dumb brutes; took Buffalo Bill, and all his scouts; took the garrison—to the last man; and in forty-eight hours the Indian encampment was hers, illustrious old Thunder-Bird and all.  Do I seem to have lost my solemnity, my gravity, my poise, my dignity?  You would lose your own, in my circumstances.  Mother, you never saw such a winning little devil.  She is all energy, and spirit, and sunshine, and interest in everybody and everything, and pours out her prodigal love upon every creature that will take it, high or low, Christian or pagan, feathered or furred; and none has declined it to date, and none ever will, I think.  But she has a temper, and sometimes it catches fire and flames up, and is likely to burn whatever is near it; but it is soon over, the passion goes as quickly as it comes.  Of course she has an Indian name already; Indians always rechristen a stranger early.  Thunder-Bird attended to her case.  He gave her the Indian equivalent for firebug, or fire-fly.  He said:

“’Times, ver’ quiet, ver’ soft, like summer night, but when she mad she blaze.”

Isn’t it good?  Can’t you see the flare?  She’s beautiful, mother, beautiful as a picture; and there is a touch of you in her face, and of her father—poor George! and in her unresting activities, and her fearless ways, and her sunbursts and cloudbursts, she is always bringing George back to me.  These impulsive natures are dramatic.  George was dramatic, so is this Lightning-Bug, so is Buffalo Bill.  When Cathy first arrived—it was in the forenoon—Buffalo Bill was away, carrying orders to Major Fuller, at Five Forks, up in the Clayton Hills.  At mid-afternoon I was at my desk, trying to work, and this sprite had been making it impossible for half an hour.  At last I said:

“Oh, you bewitching little scamp, can’t you be quiet just a