to him. As nurse, she knew
the man ought not to be allowed to talk then. As mother, she was
impatient to ask him where he had learned to speak English, and to
inquire if he knew her boy.

The nurse conquered. The patient drank the water and was allowed to
go to sleep again undisturbed.

In time, though, he was stronger, and then, one day, the mother's
questions were asked for the hundredth time; and the last.

Yes, the prisoner patient knew just such a man. He had come among the
people of the tribe many months ago. He was a tall, fair young man,
and he had such a scar as the "senora," described. He was a fine young
man. Once, when this man's father had been sick, the white man had
doctored him and made him well. It was this white man, the patient
said, who had taught him the little English that he knew.

"Yes," when he saw the photograph of Heber Smith, "that is the man. He
has a picture, too," the patient said, "two pictures, little ones,
set in a little gold box which hangs on his watch chain."

The hospital nurse unclasped a big cameo breast pin from the throat
of her gown and held it down so that the man in bed could see a
daguerreotype set in the back of the pin.

"Was one of the pictures like that?" she asked.

The Tagalog looked at the picture, a likeness of a middle-aged man
wearing the coat and hat of the Grand Army of the Republic. In the
picture a medal pinned on to the breast of the man's coat showed.

"Yes," said he, "one of the pictures is like that."

Then he looked up curiously at the woman sitting beside his bed. "The
other picture is that of a woman," he went on, "and--yes--" still
studying her face, "I think it must be you. Only," he added, "it
doesn't look very much like you."

"No," said the woman, with a grim smile, "it doesn't. It was taken
a good many years ago, when I was younger than I am now, and when I
hadn't been baked for a year in this heathen climate. It's me, though."

In time, Juan, that was the man's name, was so far recovered of his
wound that he was to be discharged from the hospital and placed with
the other able-bodied prisoners. The hospital at that time occupied
an old convent. The day before Juan was to be discharged, Mrs. Smith
managed her cases so that for a time no one else was left in one of
the rooms with her but this man.

"Juan," she said, when she was sure they were alone, and that no one
was anywhere within hearing, "do you feel that I have done anything