"The very same, M. Frederick," interposed Marguerite. "Before departing in his carriage he came through the grove and asked to write you a word."
"Come in the library, my child," said Marie to her son.
David, Frederick, and his mother being alone, the young man said, innocently:
"I am going to read it aloud, mother."
"As you please, my child."
"Ah, but now I think it is doubtless a letter of thanks," said Frederick, smiling, "and should not be read aloud."
"You are right; you would suppress three-fourths of it," said Marie, smiling in her turn. "Give the letter to M. David, he will read it better than you."
"Come," answered Frederick, gaily, "my modesty serves me ill. If it is praise, it will still seem very sweet to me."
"That will be a punishment for your humility," said David, laughing, and he read what follows:
"'As I had the honour of telling you, monsieur, I left my house in the hope of expressing my gratitude to you. I met the valley people, who were on their way to make an ovation for you,—you, monsieur, whose name has rightfully become so popular in our country since the inundation. I thought I ought to join these people and wait the opportunity to thank you personally.