“No.”
Now this Parisian, with other Europeans, had heard startling tales about American girls; of their independence and of their amazing freedom. She leaned forward, a lively curiosity in her face. To her shame be it said that she was always entertained by a sprightly scandal, and seldom shocked.
“How interesting! And this gentleman, was he young?”
But the American girl did not reply at once. She had divined her companion’s thoughts and was distressed, and provoked. This feeling of resentment, however, she repressed as she could not, in justice, blame the Princess–nor anybody else–for being reasonably surprised. So, she began at the beginning and told the tale: of 199the stupid error by which she was left with a man she hardly knew on this point of land; of their desperate effort to escape in September, by taking to a raft and floating down the river; how they failed to land and were carried out to sea, nearly perishing from exposure. She described their reaching shore at last, several miles to the east. And when she spoke of the early snow, in October, of the violent storms and the long winter, the Princess nodded.
“Yes, I remember those winters well. But we were happy, my father and I.”
“And so were we,” said Elinor.
“Then this stranger turned out well? A gentleman, a man of honor?”
“Yes, oh, yes! And more than that. He gave his life for mine.”
From the look which came into Elinor’s face, and from a quiver in the voice, the sympathetic visitor knew there was a deeper feeling than had been expressed. She said, gently:
“You are tired now. Tell me the rest of the story later.”