haps you are preparing for the
ministry."

She assumed a solemn look, glancing up at me as if in mockery of my
sober face. She was a slim, fine brunette, who, as I knew, had
long been a confidante of Louison.

"Alas! ma'm'selle, I am worried. I have no longer any peace."

"Do you miss them?" she inquired, a knowing look in her handsome
eyes. "Do not think me impertinent."

"More than I miss my mother," I said.

"I have a letter," said she, smiling. "I do not know--I thought I
should show it to you, but--but not to-day."

"Is it from them?"

"It is from Louison--from Tiptoes."

"And--and it speaks of me?"

"Ah, m'sieur," said she, arching her brows, "it has indeed much to
say of you."

"And--and may I not see it?" I asked eagerly. "Ma'm'selle, I tell
you I--I must see it."

"Why?" She stirred the mane of her horse with a red riding-whip.

"Why not?" I inquired, my heart beating fast.

"If I knew--if I were justified--you know I am her friend. I know
all her secrets."

"Will you not be my friend also?" I interrupted.

"A friend of Louison, he is mine," said she.

"Ah, ma'm'selle, then I confess to you--it is because I love her."

"I knew it; I am no fool," was her answer. "But I had to hear it
from you. It is a remarkable thing to do, but they are in such
peril. I think you ought to know."

She took the letter from her bosom, passing it to my hand. A faint
odor of violets came with it. It read:--

"MY DEAR THERESE: I wish I could see you, if only for an hour. I
have so much to say. I have written your father of our prison
home. I am going to write you of my troubles. You know what we
were talking about the last time I saw you--myself and that
handsome fellow. Mon Dieu! I shall not name him. It is not
necessary. Well, you were right, my dear. I was a fool; I laughed
at your warning; I did not know the meaning of that delicious pain.
But oh, my dear friend, it has become a terrible thing since I know
I may never see him again. My heart is breaking with it. Mere de
Dieu! I can no longer laugh or jest or pretend to be happy. What
shall I say? That I had rather die than live without him? No;
that is not enough. I had rather be an old maid and live only with
the thought of _him_ than marry another, if he were a king. I
remember those words of yours, 'I know he loves you.' Oh, my dear
Therese, what a comfort they are to me now! I repeat them often.
If _I_ could only say