aning forward
with her elbows on her knees, gazing, half-asleep, at the almost extinct
fire.

On my entrance, she rose wearily to her feet, and looked round in feeble
surprise, but without any sign of perturbation at seeing a stranger
before her.

"Have I the honour to address Madame Leferrier?" I inquired, with as
polite a bow as the heavy fish-basket on my back permitted me to make.

"I am Dame Leferrier," she replied. "Who are you, young man? As far as
my dim eyes will allow me to judge, I have never seen you before."

"You are quite right, madame," said I. "I am a perfect stranger to you.
This note, however, from your son Jean will tell you who I am."

"A note from Jean!" she exclaimed. "What is the meaning of it? Why is
he not here, himself?"

"I am sorry to inform you that a slight misfortune has befallen him," I
replied. "He and his comrade Pierre are at present prisoners in the
hands of the English; but they will no doubt soon find the means to
escape, as I have just done."

"Prisoners!" she exclaimed. "_Mon Dieu_! what will become of them? And
what," she added, "will become of _me_, now that I have lost the support
which they only would give me?"

"Be not distressed, madame," I replied, "either on their account or your
own. They will be treated with the utmost kindness, prisoners though
they are; and, for yourself, I shall need a home until I can get out of
Bastia and return to my own; and if you will give me shelter, I am both
able and willing to pay you well for it."

I still held the note in my hand, and as I ceased speaking I offered it
her again.

"Read it out to me, monsieur, if you please," said she. "My sight is
but poor at the best of times; and is certainly not equal to reading
poor Jean's letter by this light."

I accordingly read the letter over to her, and when I had finished, she
remarked,--

"Poor boys! poor boys! Prisoners! Well, well, it cannot be helped. We
must be patient, and trust to the mercy of _Le Bon Dieu_. And now,
monsieur, as to yourself. You are doubtless hungry and tired. Here is
the supper which I had prepared for my two; alas! they are not here to
eat it; but draw up, monsieur; put the basket in the corner there, and
draw up to the table. You are heartily welcome to such as a poor widow
has to give; and when you have satisfied your hunger I will show you to
your bed. It was my boy's--my poor Jean's--ah! will he ever sleep on it
again?"

I drew