ed by such courage and such longing
as were in her speech, as that speech was endorsed by her bearing.
His thought toward her seemed to change in this look.

"Can you write, Elizabeth?" asked he.

"I can write," she answered, proudly, standing forward like a young
brave eager for orders. "I can write. My father taught me."

"You might write"--

"A letter?" she asked, breathless.

"Yes." He paused and considered, then continued,--"You might write
to--you might write to my friend, and tell her about the garden,
and how I am now allowed to walk in it,--and about your father and
your mother,--about yourself, too; anything that will make this
place seem pleasant to her. You know the pleasant side of Foray,
--give her that."

"Yes. Is she your mother?"

"No."

"Your sister, Sir?"

"No, Elizabeth. She and I were to have been married."

"Oh, Sir,--and you in Foray,--in a prison,--so far away!"

"Wide apart as death could put us. And shall I let you write to her?
Yes! we will triumph over this death and this grave!"

"By me!--yes,--I will tell her,--it shall surely be by me," said
Elizabeth, in a low voice.

"Then tell her;--you will be able, I know, to think of a great deal
that is comforting. I should not remember it, I'm afraid, if I could
write the letter. Tell her what fine music I have. You can say
something, too, about the garden, as I said. You can speak of the
view from this window. See! it is very fine. You can tell her--yes,
you can tell her now, that I am well, Elizabeth."

"Oh, Sir, can I tell her you are well?"

"Yes,--yes,--say so. Besides, it is true. But you must add that I
have no hope now of our meeting in this world. She can bear it, for
she is strong, like you. She, too, is a soldier's daughter. If you
will say those things, I will tell you her name. That shall be our
secret." In this speech his tone was altogether that of one who
takes the place of a comforter.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, calm and attentive. It was quite impossible
that she should so mistake as to allow the knowledge that was
quickening her perception into pain to appear.

"You must tell her about yourself," said he, again.

"What shall I say? There is nothing about myself to tell, Mr. Manuel."

"Is there not? That would be strange. Tell her what music you like
best to hear your father play. She will understand you by that. Tell
her anything,--she will not call it a trifle. What if she answers
you in the same mood? Sho