I attend to her studies myself; has she told you that? Yes, I am her school-master, and she makes pretty good progress, I think, everything considered. Everything considered—being translated—means holidays. But the fact is, she was not born for study, and it comes hard. Hard for me, too; it hurts me like a physical pain to see that free spirit of the air and the sunshine laboring and grieving over a book; and sometimes when I find her gazing far away towards the plain and the blue mountains with the longing in her eyes, I have to throw open the prison doors; I can’t help it. A quaint little scholar she is, and makes plenty of blunders. Once I put the question: “What does the Czar govern?” She rested her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand and took that problem under deep consideration. Presently she looked up and answered, with a rising inflection implying a shade of uncertainty, “The dative case?” Here are a couple of her expositions which were delivered with tranquil confidence: “_Chaplain_, diminutive of chap. _Lass_ is masculine, _lassie_ is feminine.” She is not a genius, you see, but just a normal child; they all make mistakes of that sort. There is a glad light in her eye which is pretty to see when she finds herself able to answer a question promptly and accurately, without any hesitation; as, for instance, this morning: “Cathy dear, what is a cube?” “Why, a native of Cuba.” She still drops a foreign word into her talk now and then, and there is still a subtle foreign flavor or fragrance about even her exactest English—and long may this abide! for it has for me a charm that is very pleasant. Sometimes her English is daintily prim and bookish and captivating. She has a child’s sweet tooth, but for her health’s sake I try to keep its inspirations under check. She is obedient—as is proper for a titled and recognized military personage, which she is—but the chain presses sometimes. For instance, we were out for a walk, and passed by some bushes that were freighted with wild goose-berries. Her face brightened and she put her hands together and delivered herself of this speech, most feelingly: “Oh, if I was permitted a vice it would be the _gourmandise_!” Could I resist that? No. I gave her a gooseberry. You ask about her languages. They take care of themselves; they will not get rusty here; our regiments are not made up of natives alone—far from it. And she is picking up Indian tongues diligently. VI SOLDIER BOY AND THE MEXICAN PLUG “WHEN did you come?” “Arrived at sundown.” “Where from?” “Salt Lake.” “Are you in the service?” “No. Trade.” “Pirate trade, I reckon.” “What do you know about it?” “I saw you when you came. I recognized your master. He is a bad sort. Trap-robber, horse-thief, squaw-man, renegado—Hank Butters—I know him very well. Stole you, didn’t he?” “Well, it amounted to that.” “I thought so. Where is his pard?” “He stopped at White Cloud’s camp.”