The laurel that was trained all up that side of the house stirred in the breeze and tapped at the window. Elfrida crossed to the window-seat. No, it was only the laurel. But next moment a hand tapped—a hand with rings on it, and a white square showed in the window—a letter.
“For Miss Betty Arden,” said a whispering voice.
Elfrida carried the letter to where her cousin sat, and laid it on her flowered silk lap.
“For me, child? Where did you get it?”
“Read it,” said Elfrida, “it’s from a gentleman.”
“Lud!” said Cousin Bet. “What a day!—a highwayman and the jewels lost, and now a love-letter.”
She opened it, read it—read it again and let her hand flutter out with it in a helpless sort of way towards Elfrida, who, very brisk and businesslike, took it and read it. It was clearly and beautifully written.
“The Chevalier St. George,” it said, “visiting his kingdom in secret on pressing affairs of State, asks housing and hiding beneath the roof of the loyal Ardens.”
“Now, don’t scream,” said Elfrida sharply; “who’s the Chevalier St. George?”
“Our King,” said Betty in a whisper—“our King over the water—King James the Third. Oh, why isn’t my uncle at home? They’ll kill the King if they find him. What shall I do? What shall I do?”