That poor orphan child is on her way from France—­everybody is full of the subject.  Her father was General 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.

CHAPTER 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.