*

"What is that about the caged bird?" said Edwards.

"Ah, the caged bird?" said Calabressa. "The caged bird?--do you see,
that is a metaphor. It is nothing; one makes one's little joke. But I
was saying, my dear friend, that you English do not promise, and then
forget. No; he says, 'I will befriend this poor devil of a Kirski;' and
here he comes inquiring after him. Now I must answer the letter; you
will accompany me, Monsieur Edouarts? Ten minutes in my little room, and
it is done."

So the two walked away together. This Edwards who now accompanied
Calabressa was a man of about thirty, who looked younger; tall, fair,
with a slight stoop, a large forehead, and blue eyes that stared
near-sightedly through spectacles. The ordinary expression of his face
was grave even to melancholy, but his occasional smile was humorous, and
when he laughed the laugh was soft and light like that of a child. His
knowledge of modern languages was considered to be almost unrivalled,
though he had travelled but little.

When, in this little room, Calabressa had at length finished his letter
and dusted it over with sand, he was not at all loath to show it to this
master of modern speech. Calabressa was proud of his French; and if he
would himself have acknowledged that it was perhaps here and there of
doubtful idiom and of phonetic spelling, would he not have claimed for
it that it was fluent, incisive, and ornate?

"My valued friend, it is not permitted me to answer your questions in
precise terms; but he to whom you have had the goodness to extend your
bountiful protection is well and safe, and under my own care. No; he
goes not back to Russia. His thoughts are different; his madness travels
in other directions; it is no longer revenge, it is adoration and
gratitude that his heart holds. And you, can you not guess who has
worked the miracle? Think of this: you have a poor wretch who is
distracted by injuries and suffering; he goes away alone into Europe; he
is buffeted about with the winds of hunger and thirst and cold: he
cannot speak; he is like a dog--a wild beast that people drive away from
their door. And all at once some one addresses him in gentle tones: it
is the voice of an angel to him! You plough and harrow the poor wretch's
heart with suffering and contempt and hopelessness, until it is a
desert, a wilderness; but some one, by accident, one day drops a seed of
kindness into it, and behold! the beautiful flower of lo