an illness which has
made an old man of me. I struggled on as long as I could, hoping to
attain to a safe resting-place for her, but the winter cold completed
the work; and then, Madame--oh that I could tell you the blessing she
was to me!--her patience, her watchfulness, her tenderness, through all
the long weeks that I lay helpless alike in mind and body at Charente.
Ah! Madame, had my own daughter lived, she could not have been more to
me than that noble lady; and her cheerful love did even more for me than
her tender care.'

'I must see her,' ejaculated the Duchesse; then added, 'But was it this
illness that hindered you from placing her in safety in England?'

'In part, Madame; nay, I may say, wholly. We learnt that the assembly
was to take place here, and I had my poor testimony to deliver, and to
give notice of my intention to my brethren before going to a foreign
land, whence perhaps I may never return.'

'She ought to be in England,' said Madame de Quinet; 'she will never be
safe from these kinsmen in this country.'

'M. de Nid de Merle has been all the spring in Poland with the King,'
said the minister, 'and the poor lady is thought to have perished at La
Sablerie. Thus the danger has been less pressing, but I would have taken
her to England at once, if I could have made sure of her reception, and
besides---' he faltered.

'The means?' demanded the Duchess, guessing at the meaning.

'Madame is right. She had brought away some money and jewels with her,
but alas, Madame, during my illness, without my knowledge, the dear
child absolutely sold them to procure comforts for me. Nay'--his eyes
filled with tears--'she whom they blame for vanities sold the very hair
from her head to purchase unguents to ease the old man's pains; nor did
I know it for many a day after. From day to day we can live, for our own
people willingly support a pastor and his family; and in every house my
daughter has been loved,--everywhere but in this harsh-judging town. But
for the expense of a voyage, even were we at Bordeaux or La Rochelle, we
have nothing, save by parting with the only jewels that remain to her,
and those--those, she says, are heirlooms; and, poor child, she guards
them almost as jealously as her infant, around whom she has fastened
them beneath her clothes. She will not even as yet hear of leaving them
in pledge, to be redeemed by the family. She says they would hardly know
her without them. And truly, Madame, I sc