“I trust that my name is not entirely unknown to the commander in chief,” said the major, a little proudly; “nor are you as obscure as your modesty would make you. I believe you, Frances, when you say that you pity me, and it must be my task to continue worthy of such feelings. But I waste the precious moments; we must go through the hills to-night, that we may be refreshed in time for the duty of to-morrow. Mason is already waiting my orders to mount. Frances, I leave you with a heavy heart; pity me, but feel no concern for your brother; he must again become a prisoner, but every hair of his head is sacred.”
“Stop! Dunwoodie, I conjure you,” cried Frances, gasping for breath, as she noticed that the hand of the clock still wanted many minutes to the desired hour. “Before you go on your errand of fastidious duty, read this note that Henry has left for you, and which, doubtless, he thought he was writing to the friend of his youth.”
“Frances, I excuse your feelings; but the time will come when you will do me justice.”
“That time is now,” she answered, extending her hand, unable any longer to feign a displeasure that she did not feel.
“Where got you this note?” exclaimed the youth, glancing his eyes over its contents. “Poor Henry, you are indeed my friend! If anyone wishes me happiness, it is you!”
“He does, he does,” cried Frances, eagerly; “he wishes you every happiness; believe what he tells you; every word is true.”
“I do believe him, lovely girl, and he refers me to you for its confirmation. Would that I could trust equally to your affections!”
“You may, Peyton,” said Frances, looking up with innocent confidence towards her lover.
“Then read for yourself, and verify your words,” interrupted Dunwoodie, holding the note towards her.
Frances received it in astonishment, and read the following: