I gave it my immediate
attention. The letter began abruptly, and ran as follows:
"'Ah, senor, have you forgotten Saratoga, and the little Mercedes?
Have you forgotten your promise to the Cuban girl? Surely not! The
pain in my heart you must well understand, for I know that _you_
love _your_ country very dearly. I read your speeches--all of
them--I read them in the papers, but not a word for Cuba--my poor,
bleeding Cuba! And yet you swore to me that night on the veranda,
with the moon shining so softly through the vines, that your voice
would ever be raised for Cuba--Cuba Libre! Would I have kissed you
else? Now, dear friend, when you make one of your beautiful
speeches again, think of Cuba, my gasping, dying Cuba, and
"'MERCEDES.
"'P. S.--I am in Washington, at the Arlington.--M.'
"This was interesting, to say the least. Of course, I remembered
Mercedes, and old Villasante, her fat papa, and Manuel the brother, and
Alejandro the cousin. Yes, I remembered them all very well and the night
on the veranda, with the moon shining softly through the vines, the
music floating out to us from the ballroom, the innumerable bumpers with
Manuel Villasante, Carlos Amezaga, Alejandro Menendez, and others of the
Cuban colony at the hotel.
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