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26 lest they were to be inspected by some Spanish official. They were severely guarded, therefore, in any thing which might convict Nolan or Harrod, or their humbler adherents. For the rest, they describe the position of the ladies sufficiently.


 * Can you believe it? We are really here. See, I write you in my own room, which dear Aunt Dolores has arranged for me,—just as kindly as can be. I would not for the world tell her how funny it all is to me; for she has done every thing to make it French or American, or to please what are supposed to be my whims. But if you saw it, you would laugh so, papa, and so would Roland, if he is anything like you.

I shall write Roland a letter, and it will go in the same cover with this. But he must not cry, as you used to say to me, if I write to you first of all.

I have kept my journal very faithfully, as I said I would, and some day you shall see it. But not now, dear papa; for the General—Herrara, you know—is very kind to let this go at all, and it must be the smallest letter that I know how to make, and Roland's too.

I think you were wholly right about the journey, dear papa, and I think if we had it to do over again you would think that this was the way to do it, if you knew all that we have seen and all that we have enjoyed, and even if you knew all the inconveniences. It has been just as you said, that I have learned ever so many things which I should never have learned in any other way, and seen ever so much that I should never have seen in any other way. Dear papa, if you will keep it secret and not tell Roland,—for I am dreadfully afraid of Roland, you know,—I will tell you that I do not think I am near so much of a goose as I was when I left home. I hope you would say that your little girl is rather more of a woman. And I am as well, papa, as I can be. Eunice says I have gained flesh. We cannot find out, though we were all weighed yesterday, in the great scales in the warehouse. But they weigh with fanegas and all sorts of things, and nobody seems to know what they mean in good honest livres. I know I am stouter, because of the dresses, you know. There, pray do not read that to Roland.

Aunt Eunice is writing, and she will tell you all the business, the important business of the journey. She will explain why we changed the plans, and how it all happened. I know you will be very sorry that we had not Capt. P. all the way. I am sure I was. He was just as nice as ever, and as good as gold to me. If Roland is to be a soldier, I hope he will be just such a soldier. But then I hope Roland is not to be a soldier. I hope he is to come home to me some day. Aunt Eunice will tell you whom we had to escort us instead of Capt. P. When you come home you will know how to thank him for his care of us. I only wish I knew when we are to see him or the Captain again. Papa, if you or Roland had been with us, I do not think there was one thing you could have thought of which he did not think of and do, so bravely and so pleasantly, and so tenderly. I knew he had sisters, and he said he had. I can always tell. I only hope they know that it is not every girl has such brothers. I have; but there are not many girls that do. Why, papa, the night I was lost, he—there I did not mean to tell you one word of my being lost, but it slipped out from the pen. That night he was in the saddle half the night hunting for me. Perhaps you say that was of course. And he tied up some Indians that he thought knew about me. Perhaps that was of course too. But what was not of course was this, that from that moment to this moment, he never said I was a fool, as I was. He never said if I had done this or that, it would have been better. He was perfectly lovely and gentlemanly about it all, always: papa, he was just like you. I wish I knew when we should see him again. He left yesterday with only three men to join the Captain. I wish we could see him soon. When we are all at home again, in dear, dear Orleans, I shall coax you to let me ask his sister to spend the winter with us. There are two of them—one is named Marion,—really after the Swamp-Fox, papa, and the other is named Jane. Jane is the oldest. Is not Marion a pretty name?

But, papa, though there is only this scrap left, I want to tell you earnestly how much I want to take Ma-ry with us when you come home; how much I love her, and how necessary it is that she shall not stay here. Aunt Eunice says she will explain it all, and who Ma-ry is, and why I write her name so. She will tell you why it is so necessary as I say. But, dear papa, only I can tell you how much, how very much, I want her. You see I have a sister now and I do not want to lose her. And, papa, this is not the coaxing of a little girl; this is the real earnest wish of your own Inez, now she has seen things as a woman sees them. Do not laugh at that, dear papa; but think of it carefully when you have read dear Auntie's letter, and think how you can manage to let me have Ma-ry till she finds her own home. Oh dear! what will happen to me when she finds it?

Oh, papa, why is not this sheet bigger? It was the biggest they had. Ever so much love to Roland, and all to you,

From your own little INEZ.

Silas Perry read this letter aloud to his soldier son, as they sat together in their comfortable lodgings in Passy. And then Roland said,—" Now let me try and see how much the little witch explains to me of these mysteries. It is just as she says; she is afraid of me without wanting to be, and we shall find the words are longer, though I am afraid the letter will be shorter. We will fix all that up, when I have been a week on the plantation."

Nov. 27, 1800 You have not the slightest idea what sort of a place a Spanish city is, though you have been the subject of our gracious and Catholic King ten years longer than I have. There are many beautiful situations here, and some of the public edifices are as fine as any we have in Orleans; but it is the strangest place I ever saw.

"That is curious," said Roland, stopping to keep his cigar alive, "as she never saw any other place but Orleans. You see that