Your son was seen by the carpenter's wife in company with the robbers. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. "Spare me!" he groaned, looking upwards. What a heat that news had wrought. She had braved all obstacles to pursue her dream. The times were such that, with the opinions he entertained, he could not remain idle. His hands reached under her skirt. What she had termed illuminative now appeared to be only another phase of the mystery which enveloped the child. Did she suppose him a possible pretender to her daughter’s hand? The girl—Dorothée, if memory served—was clearly marriageable, but he imagined most of these unhappy exiles were all but penniless. ” “I am your friend,” he said slowly, “whatever you may have to tell me.
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