If Miss Rosenthal had heard that her friend had been under fire in forty separate fights in this time, it would not have shocked her so much. “It is a fact, Erminie. And I tell you the deprivation has cured me of one folly,” said Elfie, nodding her head. “What is that?” “The desire to serve as a soldier in the ranks. There is too much _grime_ mixed up with the glory. I shouldn’t so much mind the sabre strokes, nor the shot and shell, nor even the commissary coffee, salt pork and hard tack. But I wouldn’t—no, not even for the sake of my country—would I endure the lack of clean linen and fresh water and the abundance of dirt and—‘_inthects_,’ as my friend Billingcoo delicately puts it. So I think I will leave the men who are not fastidious to fight the battles, and wear the breeches, and I will rest contented with crinoline and cleanliness for the remainder of my life.” “I think you would do well,” answered Erminie. “But now, after your bath and change of clothing, you will require something. What shall it be? A glass of mulled wine, a cup of coffee and sandwiches?” “A cup of tea and a round of toast, if you please, my dear. I couldn’t go anything heavier than that. Afterwards we will have such a talk! You have no idea how much I have got to tell you, Erminie.” “Then you shall have your bath immediately, after which you shall slip on a dressing gown and come to my bed-room. I will order your tea served there, where we can talk at ease.” “You angel!—There! I don’t want to say anything sentimental or sickening, but you _are_ an angel, if I know anything about the cloudy creatures, which perhaps I don’t. A mere mortal might have put me off with my own room, or any other one in this big house; but you take me to yours; consequently you are an angel!” “Nonsense, Elfie.” “Oh, yes, I dare say it is nonsense—nothing more likely. Whenever I speak from my heart I am apt to talk nonsense, I believe.” And then, as Catherine was waiting to attend her, Elfie arose, gave her friend a rousing kiss and left the library. An hour later than this, at about eleven o’clock in the night, Elfie, thoroughly refreshed with her warm bath and fresh clothing, and wrapped in a white merino dressing gown, and with her feet thrust into white fur slippers, sat in an easy chair before the bright little wood-fire in Erminie’s bed-room. Erminie sat opposite to her, and between them stood a stand with a little tête-à-tête silver and porcelain tea service. And while she took her tea, which Erminie shared for sociability sake, Elfie related her adventures among the guerrillas. “I have so much to tell you, Erminie dear, that indeed I do not know where to begin. But first tell _me_: Have you heard from your brother or from Britomarte lately?” “They—they are safe?” gasped Erminie, in sudden, deadly fear.