“I’m quite comfortable,” she assured me. “When am I to be sent to Albany? Does the doorway prevent you from answering a simple question?”

“No,” I said, “I can answer your simple question if you’ll answer one equally simple. What is it your aunt wants you to do in Albany, Ellen?”

“Ah! So you’re at my aunt again!”

“Yes, I am! Until I know what you’re supposed to do in Albany, I’m—well, I’m afraid to have you go there.”

“You’re afraid?” Ellen asked softly. “You’re afraid of something that might happen to me?”

“Not exactly. Not in the way you mean. But I’m afraid for you—afraid that innocently you might—afraid that through something you might innocently do——”

“What are you trying to say! Do you think I’ll understand you better if you hem and haw?”

“Very well,” I said, “I’m afraid you might innocently do something to hurt the American cause.”

“I see,” Ellen whispered. “You know that I love my aunt, and you choose to think she’s a spy.”

“Wait, Ellen! You’ve spoken of Marie de Sabrevois, again and again, as your aunt; but in reality, she’s nothing at all to you. You know nothing about her. You don’t know where she was born, or who her father and mother were. That’s true, isn’t it?”

Ellen’s reply was quick. “Such a question is even more foolish than it is insulting. My aunt is the sister of the gentleman who purchased my mother and me from the Indians. He was a great gentleman, Henri Guerlac de Sabrevois. I can’t remember my mother, or Monsieur Guerlac; but my aunt Marie came to me, often and often, in the convent, to tell me how kind he was, and how generous and brave, and how he wished me always to be a lady, like my mother.”

She stopped. I was uncomfortable, not knowing whether or not she was weeping; but when she went on, her voice was almost expressionless.