"I am from prison," then glancing at the note, "I think that is for you."
She took the novel, and, holding it open as if reading it, scanned the contents of the note:
"My Dearest Wife: This is the book-peddler. You will want to buy books from him. Buy what you want. Give him the packages for me. He is honest.
"All is well.
Nat."
When she had read the note she stood looking at it, apparently unable to speak. Madam Imbert looked at her, and as she began to fear that some of the neighbors might notice the long stay of the peddler, said:
"Have you no message for the man? Time is precious!"
"Yes," she answered, looking up as from a trance.
Madam Imbert spoke in a low tone:
"Tell him to meet you down the lane."
"Yes," said she, "I will meet you down the lane at two o'clock and take some books from you."