In spite of the dullness of her garments, she had the cheeriest look of any girl I had ever seen. Her hair was dark brown—so dark as to seem almost black; and it curled in tight little curls around her forehead and ears and the nape of her neck, a cap of crinkly, glistening, chestnut-colored fleece. I was filled with curiosity, the moment I saw her, to know whether the ringlets were soft, or whether they would be harsh to the touch; and I think my curiosity was not unusual; for when the lady had looked at us almost sleepily, she said, “Sit down, Ellen”; and as she did so she passed her hand gently over the girl’s tight mass of brown curls. Ellen sat down at once, prim and obedient, and looked up at us out of brown eyes so bright that they seemed to gleam as does the brown brass of my sextant when I look across it at the sun.

The lady regarded us. “You have a letter for Ellen? I am Madame St. Auge. I will take it, please.”

Nathaniel gave her the envelope. When she had glanced at the name on it, she turned it over and looked thoughtfully at the seal; then fingered the square of paper dreamily.

“Yes,” she said. “The writing is that of a dear friend. From where do you bring this letter?”

“From London,” Nathaniel said. He coughed. “We were in London until the end of March. She—I met her—–”

He coughed again.

Madame St. Auge’s eyes darted from his face to mine, and fell again to the letter.

“Yes,” she said, “yes.” She broke the seal and gave the contents one swift glance. She smoothed the letter on her knee, then, and made a cooing sound. I could see there were only a few lines on the page, written large, so that much of the paper was wasted. “A sweet note,” she murmured to Ellen. “Like herself; sweet, my dear!” Then she read it aloud.

“My darling Ellen; I send you my love by a kind gentleman who may see you before I do. I shall come to you as soon as I return. Pray assure the good Madame St. Auge that all goes well here, but that I long to see you once more, never again to leave you. To Monsieur Montgolfier I send my respects, and to you eight thousand kisses. The gentleman who brings this to you will, I am sure, assist you in any possible way, if the opportunity should arise.”

Nathaniel looked at me reproachfully, and I could not meet his eye. I was ashamed of the curious broodings that had been mine concerning him and Mademoiselle de Sabrevois and the letter; and I wanted to tell him I was sorry, and to ask his pardon; but I suppose I have always had a stiffness, both in mind and manner, that makes such matters awkward for me.