im sables, and crosses oversea
again; and so good-bye to count and his foolery. And sables shall be
ma'm'selle's, if she will have them." He might have sold the thing for
many louis, and yet he brought it to me; and he would not go till he had
seen me sitting on it, muffling my hands and face in the soft fur.

Just now, as I am writing, I glance at the table where I sit--a
small brown table of oak, carved with the name of Felise, Baroness of
Beaugard. She sat here; and some day, when you hear her story, you will
know why I begged Madame Lotbiniere to give it to me in exchange for
another, once the King's. Carved, too, beneath her name, are the words,
"Oh, tarry thou the Lord's leisure."

And now you shall laugh with me at a droll thing Georgette has given me
to wipe my pen upon. There are three little circles of deerskin and one
of ruby velvet, stitched together in the centre. Then, standing on the
velvet is a yellow wooden chick, with little eyes of beads, and a
little wooden bill stuck in most quaintly, and a head that twists like a
weathercock. It has such a piquant silliness of look that I laugh at
it most heartily, and I have an almost elfish fun in smearing its downy
feathers. I am sure you did not think I could be amused so easily. You
shall see this silly chick one day, humorously ugly and all daubed with
ink.

There is a low couch in one corner of the room, and just above hangs
a picture of my mother. In another corner is a little shelf of books,
among them two which I have studied constantly since you were put in
prison--your great Shakespeare, and the writings of one Mr. Addison. I
had few means of studying at first, so difficult it seemed, and all the
words sounded hard; but there is your countryman, one Lieutenant Stevens
of Rogers' Rangers, a prisoner, and he has helped me, and is ready
to help you when the time comes for stirring. I teach him French; and
though I do not talk of you, he tells me in what esteem you are held
in Virginia and in England, and is not slow to praise you on his own
account, which makes me more forgiving when he would come to sentiment!

In another corner is my spinning-wheel, and there stands a harpsichord,
just where the soft sun sends in a ribbon of light; and I will presently
play for you a pretty song. I wonder if you can hear it? Where I
shall sit at the harpsichord the belt of sunlight will fall across my
shoulder, and, looking through the window, I shall see your prison