"I have hopes of seeing you soon again—sooner perhaps than you may imagine—"
"Do you see, mother, do you see!" cried the children, trembling with joy and clasping their hands as if in prayer.
"Good God! Good God! Is it possible! We are to see him soon again!" exclaimed Madam Lebrenn, wiping from her eyes the tears that darkened them, and she proceeded reading:
"When I say I hope, my dearly beloved friend, I mean more than a mere hope; it is in fact a certainty. I should, perhaps, have begun my letter by giving you this assurance; but, however well aware I am of your self-possession, I feared lest too sudden a surprise might hurt you and our children. By this time, I consider, your minds are quite familiarized with the idea of seeing me soon, very soon, not so? Accordingly, I now feel free to promise you—"
"Why, mother," broke in George interrupting the reading of the letter, "Monsieur Lebrenn must be in Paris!"
"In Paris!" the family cried in chorus.
"The letter bears no stamp," proceeded George excitedly. "Monsieur Lebrenn has arrived—and he sent the letter ahead with a messenger."
"There can be no doubt! George is right," put in Madam Lebrenn.
And she read rapidly the rest of the missive:
"Accordingly, I now feel free to promise you that we shall all celebrate together our son's anniversary. That day begins to-night after twelve o'clock; at that hour, or, perhaps, even sooner, I shall be with you. Just so soon as the messenger who takes my letter to you, leaves the house, I shall run upstairs and wait—yes, I shall wait behind the door, there, near you."