"Of course, it's French," cried the girl. "Would you write a note in
English to father there? The man's friends are French like himself,
and must write in their own language."
"Here take it and read it out," commanded her father; "and mind you
tell us what it means. I'll have nothing going on here that I don't
understand."
"Read me the French words first, miss," said I. "It is my letter and I
want to know what my friend has to say to me."
Nodding at me with a gentle look, she cast her eyes on the paper and
began to read:
"Calmez vous, mon amie, il vous aime et il vous cherche. Dans
quatre heures vous serez heureuse. Allons du courage, et surtout
soyez maitre de vous meme."
"Thanks!" I exclaimed in a calm matter-of-fact way as I perceived the
sudden tremor that seized her as she recognized the handwriting and
realized that the words were for her. "My friend says he will pay my
week's rent and bids me be at home to receive him," said I, turning
upon the two ferocious faces peering over her shoulder, with a look
of meek unsuspiciousness in my eye, that in a theatre would have
brought down the house.
"Is that what those words say, you?" asked the father, pointing over
her shoulder to the paper she held.
"I will translate for you word by word what it says," replied she,
nerving herself for the crisis till her face was like marble, though
I could see she could not prevent the gleam of secret rapture that had
visited her, from flashing fitfully across it.
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