men had been taken from the Central Hotel that morning, and it was found that they were suffering from yellow fever. “You will not be allowed to stay there now,” he said. “But what shall I do?” I exclaimed. “There is no other place to live.” “I know a man named Martin Luther,” replied my informant. “Did you ever hear of him? He’s from Boston. He used to be a labor agent, a milkman, a real estate man, a street car conductor, a preacher, a theatrical manager, and a walking delegate. Now he is superintendent of construction at Ancon. He’ll fix you up all right. How would you like to live in a tent among the boys on Ancon Hill?” “I should like it,” I said, “but it would be a little irregular, wouldn’t it? A lone woman to live in a tent among men?” “Oh, shucks! That’s the best place for you. I’ll see Martin Luther about it this afternoon, and you’ll be moved soon. Martin Luther has a tender heart, even if he does swear a blue streak sometimes.”

Together we walked back to the hotel, to find the sanitary squad at work cleaning out the house. When I entered my room I hardly knew it. It had an odor redolent of disinfectants that delighted me. The walls and the ceilings had been cleaned, and the color of the paint was quite visible. The color had been thoroughly soaked with the disinfecting fluid, and, sad to relate, the mirror was of no further use as a reflector of my freckled beauty, for the last vestige of quicksilver had disappeared, and only the glass remained, with its wooden back showing through it. I began to like the place now, and I decided to go out on the morrow and buy a new looking-glass. I decided, too, to unpack my books and pictures, and I began to speculate on the coziness of my room when I should have it furnished with my own belongings. The thought of it all gave me the first comfortable feeling I had experienced since my arrival at Panama. On the following morning I went out early and bought a pretty tea set at a Chinese store, and I actually forgot my uneasiness of mind in the thought of the pretty tea table I was to set up. On my return to the hotel I was doomed to disappointment, for a communication awaited me suggesting that I prepare to leave the hotel. But where am I to go? I thought. I spent a disquieting afternoon speculating what was to become of me. The hotel had been closed, and, as far as I knew, it was now quite sanitary, so I wondered why I had been ordered to move in such a peremptory manner. Late in the afternoon a cart came from the construction department at Ancon for my trunks, and a negro handed me an envelope, with “I. C. C.” on one of its corners. This startled me, it had such an official appearance, so, with a beating heart and trembling hand, I opened it and read as follows:

On reading this I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. My anxiety had been somewhat relieved, and presuming that the tent was among those on Ancon Hill “among the boys,” I should be near to the hospital. Still it seemed rather irregular for a lone woman to live among men, and in a tent, I reflected. However, I sent the trunks away, and awaited the arrival of the “cock-eyed Dutchman.”

My sense of the aesthetic was somewhat outraged that such a person should be picked out to escort me from the hotel, especially as Panama was filled to overflowing with stalwart Americans. At eight o’clock my escort arrived, and did not present too bad an appearance. He was a clean-looking little fellow with reddish hair, and rather a scholarly type of face. He wore glasses, so that his eyes appeared to be straight, but his legs might have been a little bit straighter. However, he was very gallant, and we were soon on our way to Ancon. The tent was unlike any other that I have seen, as it was hemmed in on all sides by mosquito netting. It had a hardwood floor, and was comfortably furnished. It had a tiny veranda, too, which commanded a fine view of the Pacific. On all sides of me there were tents. The tent of Martin Luther was at the head of the line, and I was quite taken with him, for he brought me a gun and told me that the boys would be ready and willing to protect me with their very lives. This I subsequently found to be quite true. The boys were all Americans, and ranged in age from 29 to 50 years. The most of them were veterans of the Spanish-American War, and had been knocking about in the tropics since that interesting period, so they looked upon a young white woman, clothed in white, as an ethereal being. My presence among them must have imposed a strain, for they talked in lowered voices, and even played poker in rather a silent manner. After a time the strain became so great that the poker playing was done in the tent that was farthest away from mine, and my evenings thereafter were very lonely. I was the first woman that had ever lived on that part of the hill; at least, that is what Maitland said. I made the acquaintance of Maitland on the morning after my arrival on Ancon Hill. I awoke early, feeling very hungry, and, looking out, saw, close to the wire netting, an old black face. Never had there been a more welcome sight, as I had no means of procuring breakfast.

“Good morning, mistress,” said the voice of Maitland; “I hope you slept well.” “Good morning,” I returned, with more cordiality than one would be likely to show under other circumstances. “My name is Maitland, an’ my business is to look after the tents for the boys, see that the niggers don’t steal their clothes, an’ to keep the tents clean.” “Do you ever have any spare time?” I asked. “Oh, yes, mistress, lots of it, an’ I’ll work for you if you will give me something to eat.” “But I am suffering myself for something to eat,” I replied. “Well, that’s too bad,” said Maitland, “but if you have some money, I’ll bring you some beautiful breakfast from Eduardo’s, for they sho’ do cook things fine.” So I gave him some money, and ordered hire, to bring two breakfasts. He soon returned with the food, as disgusting a mess as was ever served to a human being. I was unable to eat it, but Maitland sat on the doorstep and devoured it with relish. He expressed some concern that I did not eat, and made some practical suggestions. One was that I get coffee from the Commission Commissary at Cristobal, and an oil stove in Panama. Later he found a Jamaican woman, who cooked the meals for me. These he would bring to the door, and I really enjoyed them. He helped me to stain the floors and hang my pictures and flags, so, like Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday, I settled down to the life with resignation, and began to feel as much a part of it as if I had always lived this way.

The tent was one of the most picturesque habitations in Panama, and almost every day something new was added to its adornment. It had an old brass lamp which had been brought from France, Second Empire style, very beautiful to look at, but very useless as a bestower of light. I had an old mahogany desk which had been in use in De Lesseps’ own home, in the old French days. Some good engravings, relics of my palmy days in New York, and some real Persian rugs and velvet portiers gave the place the look of an Arab shiek. Every day I sat alone on the tiny veranda and wrote or read. I never saw a woman, and the men passed the tent with averted gaze. Martin Luther usually stopped for a moment to inquire if I was all right, and if Maitland had been sober. If anything unusual occurred he would shout it to me. In this way I kept a line on the world outside of the tent. I seldom went to the city, but whenever I did go Maitland walked behind me at a respectful distance. One morning I awoke