justification for writing
you two letters in one week, though I should make the accident a habit
if I were sure it would more please you than perplex you.

"Prince Pierre, son of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, arrived in New York two
days ago, and yesterday morning he came to the Atlantic Bank, and asked
for my husband. When he made known his business, Harry sent for me, that
I might speak with him.

"Dear Cure, hearts and instincts were right in Pontiac: our unhappy
friend Valmond was that child of Napoleon, born at St. Helena, of whom
he himself spoke at his death in your home. His mother was the Countess
of Carnstadt. At the beginning of an illness which followed Napoleon's
death, the child was taken from her by Prince Lucien Bonaparte, and was
brought up and educated as the son of poor peasants in Italy. No one
knew of his birth save the companions in exile of the Great Emperor.
All of them, with the exception of Count Bertrand, believed, as Valmond
said, that the child had died in infancy at St. Helena.

"Prince Lucien had sworn to the mother that he would care personally
for the child, and he fulfilled his promise by making him a page in his
household, and afterwards a valet--base redemption of a vow.

"But even as Valmond drew our hearts to him, so at last he won Prince
Lucien's, as he had from the first won Prince Pierre's.

"It was not until after Valmond's death, when receiving the residue of
our poor friend's estate, that Prince Pierre learned the whole truth
from Count Bertrand. He immediately set sail for New York, and next week
he will secretly visit you, for love of the dead man, and to thank
you and our dear avocat, together with all others who believed in and
befriended his unfortunate kinsman.

"Ah, dear Cure, think of the irony of it all--that a man be driven, by
the very truth in his blood, to that strangest of all impostures--to
impersonate himself--He did it too well to be the mere comedian; I felt
that all the time. I shall show his relics now with more pride than
sorrow. Prince Pierre dines with us to-night. He looks as if he had
the Napoleonic daring,--or rashness,--but I am sure he has not the good
heart of our Valmond Napoleon...."

II

The haymakers paused and leaned upon their forks, children left the
strawberry vines and climbed upon the fences, as the coach from the
distant city dashed down the street towards the four corners, and the
welcoming hotel, with its big dormer windows an