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Monica laughed softly. It was good to hear nonsense spoken. The Amapalans had never learned it, and her brother said just what he meant and no more.

“Our sailors were here once,” Monica volunteered. She wanted Mr. Everett to know he was not entirely cut off from the world. “During the revolution,” she explained. “We were so glad to see them; they made us all feel nearer home. They set up our flag in the plaza, and the color-guard let me photograph it, with them guarding it. And when they marched away the archbishop stood on the cathedral steps and blessed them, and we rode out along the trail to where it comes to the jungle. And then we waved good-by, and they cheered us. We all cried.”

For a moment, quite unconsciously, Monica gave an imitation of how they all cried. It made the appeal of the violet eyes even more disturbing. “Don’t you love our sailors?” begged Monica.

Fearful of hurting the feelings of others, she added hastily, “And, of course, our marines, too.”

Everett assured her if there was one thing that meant more to him than all else, it was an American bluejacket, and next to him an American leatherneck.

It took a long time to arrange the details of the Red Cross Society. In spite of his reputation for brilliancy, it seemed to Monica Mr. Everett had a mind that plodded. For his benefit it was necessary several times to repeat the most simple proposition. She was sure his inability to fasten his attention on her League of Mercy was because his brain was occupied with problems of state. It made her feel selfish and guilty. When his visitor decided that to explain further was but to waste his valuable time and had made her third effort to go, Everett went with her. He suggested that she take him to the hospital and introduce him to the sisters. He wanted to talk to them about the Red Cross League. It was a charming walk. Every one lifted his hat to Monica; the beggars, the cab-drivers, the barefooted policemen, and the social lights of Camaguay on the sidewalks in front of the cafes rose and bowed.

“It is like walking with royalty!” exclaimed Everett.

While at the hospital he talked to the Mother Superior–his eyes followed Monica. As she moved from cot to cot he noted how the younger sisters fluttered happily around her, like bridesmaids around a bride, and how as she passed, the eyes of those in the cots followed her jealously, and after she had spoken with them smiled in content.

“She is good,” the Mother Superior was saying, “and her brother, too, is very good.”

Everett had forgotten the brother. With a start he lifted his eyes and found the Mother Superior regarding him.

“He is very good,” she repeated. “For us, he built this wing of the hospital. It was his money. We should be very sorry if any harm came to Mr. Ward. Without his help we would starve.” She smiled, and with a gesture signified the sick. “I mean they would starve; they would die of disease and fever.” The woman fixed upon him grave, inscrutable eyes. “Will Your Excellency remember?” she said. It was less of a question than a command. “Where the church can forgive–” she paused.

Like a real diplomat Everett sought refuge in mere words.

“The church is all-powerful, Mother,” he said. “Her power to forgive is her strongest weapon. I have no such power. It lies beyond my authority. I am just a messenger-boy carrying the wishes of the government of one country to the government of another.”

The face of the Mother Superior remained grave, but undisturbed.

“Then, as regards our Mr. Ward,” she said, “the wishes of your government are–“