"Madeleine! It is the handwriting of Madeleine!"
She tore open the paper with trembling hands. There was no note,—not a single written word,—but before her lay a handkerchief of the finest texture, and embroidered with the marvellous skill which belonged alone to those "fairy fingers" she had so often watched.
Vainly might we attempt to convey even a faint idea of her tumultuous rapture,—of the tears of ecstasy, the hysterical laughter, the dancing delight, with which she greeted her uncle and Maurice, who entered a few moments after the package was received. She kissed the handkerchief moistened with her tears, waved it exultingly over her head, kissed it again, and wept over it again, while the marquis and her cousin stood looking at her in speechless astonishment.
"Madeleine! Madeleine! it is from Madeleine!" at last she found voice to ejaculate. "See, that is her handwriting," pointing to the paper cover; "and this is her work; her 'fairy fingers' send me a token on my birthday. I am seventeen to-day, and no one has remembered it but Madeleine. She thinks of me still; she never forgets any one; she has not forgotten me!"
Maurice caught up the paper in which the handkerchief had been enveloped, and with throbbing pulses eagerly examined the handwriting.
"See, Maurice," Bertha continued, joyfully, "in the corner she has embroidered my name, surrounded by a wreath of forget-me-nots,—for she does not forget. The crest of the de Merrivales is in the opposite corner; and this,—why this looks like the bracelet I gave her on her last birthday. How wonderfully she has imitated the knot of pearls that fastened the golden band! And this corner, Maurice, look,—this is in remembrance of you,—of your birthday token to her. Do you not see the design is a brooch, and the device a dove carrying an olive-branch in its mouth, and the word 'Pax' embroidered beneath?"
Maurice looked, struggling to repress the emotion that almost unmanned him. Pointing to the stamp upon the envelope which had contained the handkerchief, he said,—
"It is postmarked Dresden."
"Dresden? Dresden? Can Madeleine be in Dresden?" returned Bertha. "Ah, uncle, can we not go there at once? We shall certainly find her. Yes,—we must go. I am tired of Paris,—let us start to-morrow."
"Dresden, my dear!" cried her uncle, in a tone of unmitigated disgust. "Why, the barbarians would feed us upon sour kraut, and give us pudding before meat! Go to Dresden? Impossible! Not to be thought of! Paris was a wise move,—we have enjoyed the living amazingly; but trust ourselves to those tasteless German cooks? We should be poisoned in a couple of days. Keep cool, my dear, or you will make yourself ill by getting into such a violent state of excitement just after breakfast. How do you suppose the important process of digestion can progress favorably if your blood is agitated in this turbulent manner?"