tures of you here at Shiloh; I have a camera. You understand?”
“Oh, yes, Miss; you make them yourself. Oh, my, how pretty!” and Mrs. Rosa took up one after another of the prints.
“I ’ll give you some,” said Brenda, “to remember me by.”
“Oh, yes,” and Mrs. Rosa smiled too.
Then one of the photographs fell from her hand. “You make these all?” she asked, excitedly.
“Why, yes.”
“Who’s this? where you make him?” and she held up one of the photographs that had been taken near Tucker’s landing on the Fourth.
“Why, at Marblehead, way down by the sea,” replied Brenda. “That’s a foreign man, too, but not like you; he’s an Italian,” she added.
“No Italian,” responded Mrs. Rosa. “Why, that’s Miguel Silva, that bad, bad man!” and she threw the photograph on the floor and stamped on it.
At the name “Miguel Silva” Julia had looked up in surprise.
“Why, what is it? Have you heard from Miguel Silva?”
“No, no, he’s there,” and Mrs. Rosa pointed to the despised photograph. As Julia stooped to pick it up Mrs. Rosa threw a second photograph on the floor. She had torn it in four pieces; and as Julia picked them up, she saw the face of the foreigner who had saved Brenda
