home amid scenes of desolation and confusion. Her
family was safe and, to my surprise, the Mr. Robinson she had spoken
of was an employe of our railway, who had but lately arrived from the
United States and to whom I had been introduced a few days before.

The bombardment was now over, but the human wolves began to sack the
city. Fire was raging in some quarters and burned far into the night.
It lit the streets with a lurid glare; its red light fell upon
motionless figures in the dust, and scurrying forms, bent beneath
their weight of plunder.

Mr. Robinson was anxious to send his family to Arequipa, and I lent
them all possible assistance, receiving their heartfelt thanks. They
were in a strange land, not even knowing the language of the country.
Hattie, the young woman I had met, was the sister-in-law of Mr.
Robinson. Mrs. Robinson and her mother, an aged woman, were
disappointed with Peru and were glad to get away from the theatre of
war.

I met the Indian soldiers the next day, and the officer commanding was
very indignant at his superior for not allowing him to go to the rocks
at Mollendo and pick off the gunners from the battle ships, with flint
lock rifles.

I was a frequent visitor at the home of the Robinson family in
Arequipa, with whom I had now become well acquainted. It was strange
to my ears to hear them all talk English, for seldom had I heard my
own language spoken by women. The old lady was one of those quiet,
sweet, motherly women. Once introduced to her, it seemed one had
always known her. The whole family was the happiest and most cheerful
I had ever met. Hattie Judson became school teacher to the English and
American children in Arequipa, and her gentle ways soon won the hearts
of all. I enjoyed taking her to the theatre and other places of
amusement, because of her bright conversation and high ideals. From
her I began to catch a glimpse of the nobler things of life, things
that to me, being but poorly educated and in a foreign land, had been
denied. She was a sweet singer and an excellent performer on the
piano, and somehow when she sang I was able to understand the
soul-reaching depths of the melody.

There was company at the house one night, when I heard her sing for
the first time "Coming Thro' the Rye." My soul floated back to Bonnie
Scotland, as when a boy I saw the waving fields of grain, the cows in
the barnyard, and the lassies coming down the path from school; my
mother with the wi