“His name is Anastasius Grubb. But what good will that do? Tha knows well there is no way to send a letter through the gates, or to be sure it will reach my friend!” he exclaimed.
“I’ll see that the letter goes through the gates safely, and that it is given to the driver of the coach which goes nearest to the valley. I can trust him to give it into the hands of some one who will put it in the hands of your friend the skipper!”
“Tha can do this? Tha can trust the letter to go through?”
“Yes, trust,” Dian nodded as he spoke.
That was the conversation that Humphrey Trail and Dian held in the rat-haunted room in the alley.
A fortnight later the first breath of spring that they had felt there in the sunshine by the West Barricade had deepened into joyousness in Pigeon Valley. A faint flare of green touched the tops of trees in the forest, and a gleam of mauve and gold showed the early budding of violets and crocuses. There was a happy carnival of song birds early every morning. The sun was warm at noontime, and the nights were softly luminous.
There was spring everywhere, except in the hearts of the family at Les Vignes. There had been no arrival of the messenger for whom they had waited throughout the long winter. The comtesse had sent them no word, and that meant that she had not been able to do so. There had been rumors now and then, even direct news, of the horrors of Paris, brought by traveling peddlers, but there had been no news from Dian at all.
It was of this that Marie Josephine was thinking as she put Great-aunt Hortense’s shawl around her, and walked down the staircase at Les Vignes. It had been the hardest thing to bear, not hearing from Dian. She had felt so sure that he would find a way to help.
There was a look on Marie Josephine’s face which had never been there before, a seriousness in her eyes and about her mouth, a look of high purpose and of dignity. Madame le Pont noticed it as she came into the salon. They were all sitting about a fire of crisply burning logs, for the spring nights were cold.