uld we call it foolish, if she told us her
thoughts, and the events that take place daily in her quiet life?
You can tell her what songs you love to sing. And if she does not
know them, she will learn them, Elizabeth. Tell her how much it
comforts me to hear you sing. Tell her, that, if she has prayed some
light might shine on me from Heaven, her prayer is answered. For it
is true. You serve me like an angel, and I see it all. Tell her she
must love you for my sake,--though there is no need to tell her.--Do
you see?"

"I see."

"Tell her I remember"--There he faltered; he could say no more.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will,--I will tell her everything,
Mr. Manuel,--everything that it would comfort her to hear."

She had written letters now and then. Great pride Montier and
Pauline took in their daughter's skilful use of pen and ink, and
pencil,--for Elizabeth could sketch as well as write. There was
nothing new or strange, therefore, in her addressing this
conversation to a spirit. But, also, there was nothing easy in this
task, though she had the mighty theme of faithful love to dwell upon,
and love's wondrous inspiration to enlighten her labor.

The description to be given of island scenery was such as she had
given more than once, in writing to her distant, unknown relatives.
She need vary only slightly from what she had written before, when
she gave report of her own daily life. She was always eloquent when
talking about the flowers or her father's music.

But this she had undertaken was not a repetition of what she had
done before. With painful anxiety she scrutinized her words, her
thoughts, her feelings. The work was a labor of love; the loving best
know what anguish their labor sometimes costs them. The pain of this
letter was not fairly understood by her who endured it,--it could
not be shared.

Why was she so cautious? why in her caution lurked so much of fear?
Perhaps she might have answered, if questioned by one she trusted,
that further intrusion of herself than should serve as a veil for
the really important information she had to convey would be cruel
intrusion. But there was a very different reason; it had to do with
the sudden revelation made to herself when her father wept at the
prisoner's hard fate,--a revelation that terrified her, and
influenced every succeeding movement; it had to do with the
illumination that came when Manuel told her the sad secret of his
heart,--with that moment when s