t the town paper, and Mrs. Crittenden found
a paragraph about a soldier springing into the sea in full uniform at
Siboney to rescue a drowning comrade, who had fallen into the surf while
trying to land, and had been sunk to the bottom by his arms and
ammunition. And the rescuer's name was Crittenden. The writer went on to
tell who he was, and how he had given up his commission to a younger
brother and had gone as a private in the regular army--how he had been
offered another after he reached Cuba, and had declined that,
too--having entered with his comrades, he would stay with them to the
end. Whereat the mother's face burned with a proud fire, as did
Phyllis's, when Mrs. Crittenden read on about this Crittenden's young
brother, who, while waiting for his commission, had gone as a Rough
Rider, and who, after gallant conduct during the first fight, had taken
his place on General Carter's staff. Phyllis clapped her hands, softly,
with a long sigh of pride--and relief.

"I can eat strawberries, now." And she blushed again. Phyllis had been
living on bacon and corn-bread, she confessed shamefacedly, because
Trooper Basil was living on bacon and hardtack--little dreaming that the
food she forced upon herself in this sacrificial way was being swallowed
by that hearty youngster with a relish that he would not have known at
home for fried chicken and hot rolls.

"Yes," laughed Mrs. Crittenden. "You can eat strawberries now. You can
balance them against his cocoanuts."

Phyllis picked up the paper then, with a cry of surprise--the name
signed to the article was Grafton, whom she had seen at the recruiting
camp. And then she read the last paragraph that the mother had not read
aloud, and she turned sharply away and stooped to a pink-bed, as though
she would pick one, and the mother saw her shoulders shaking with silent
sobs, and she took the child in her arms.

There was to be a decisive fight in a few days--the attack on
Santiago--that was what Phyllis had read. The Spaniard had a good
muster-roll of regulars and aid from Cervera's fleet; was well armed,
and had plenty of time to intrench and otherwise prepare himself for a
bloody fight in the last ditch.

So that, each day there was a relief to the night agony, which, every
morning, began straightway with the thought that the fight might be
going on at that very hour. Not once did Judith come near. She had been
ill, to be sure, but one day Mrs. Crittenden met her on the wa