But now her eyes were shining with excitement. Her little heart was beating high with a new hope and purpose. When the door had closed upon the last of the visitors, the little one came out from her place of concealment, and, approaching her mother, she said:
"Mother, sweet, give me the letter. I will get it to father."
The lady looked down with her sad eyes full of wonder.
"My child—what do you mean?"
"Mother, I heard them talking. They said so much had been done. They said all arrangements had been made; and that if only father could get a letter—could read it and know—he might escape easily out of his prison. That is the letter I want."
"But, my sweetling, they will not let you go to your father. We have asked too oft—and have failed."
"I know, mother; I shall not be able to give it him myself. But little Giles will give it for me!"
"My child—what mean you—are you dreaming? Who is Giles?"
"Why, mother—you must see him often on the green. He is the jailer's little boy. He walks after us often. I give him my hand to kiss sometimes. But only when there is nobody to see. He took a kiss from me to father once; and gave me that from father too. I did not show it you before. I thought it would but make you weep afresh," and the child held up a little bit of wood, fashioned somewhat into the likeness of a horse; the sort of thing that prisoners while away the time in seeking to whittle with any little bit of metal which they may find about their dress or in their cell.
The lady's tears fell fast as she pressed the little image to her lips, and closely questioned the child about the boy, of whom she spoke with such confidence.