“She wrung her hands nervously, like one under strong excitement, and Anna looked at her wonderingly, while she continued:
“‘Yes, some day we’ll go away from this prison-house, but it may be long hence. He is vigilant and cunning, and mad, I believe; so be quiet, and seem to be content, nor beat your wings till you die like poor—’
“She checked herself ere the name of Agatha escaped her lips, but a new idea had crossed Anna’s mind, making her unmindful of what Madame Verwest was saying. She would write at once to Millfield, telling her mother where she was, and begging her to send some one to her relief. Strange she had not thought of that before as a way of escape, and she begged Madame Verwest for the lamp and writing material, that she might at once begin the letter which was to bring relief.
“‘Wait till to-morrow,’ madame said, ‘when you will be stronger and fresher.’
“And to this Anna was finally persuaded, but early the next morning the letter was written, detailing every particular of her unhappy position, and asking her mother to send some one at once to liberate her.
“This letter she intrusted to Celine, while Madame Verwest looked pityingly on, knowing in her heart that in all human probability the letter would never reach New England, but go instead to Paris, there to be read by Haverleigh and committed to the flames.
CHAPTER IV.
THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.
It was Thanksgiving day, and in the little red house which Anna had once called her home, the table was laid for dinner, laid for four—Mary, Fred, and the Anna over the sea, who had never been absent before from the festival which, in New England, means so much and is kept so sacredly. They knew she would not be there, and they had grown somewhat accustomed to living without her, but on this day it was Mary’s fancy to lay the table for her, to put her plate just where she used to sit, and place by it the little napkin ring of Stuart plaid which had been Fred’s present to her on her last birth-day.
“‘We’ll play she is here, mother,’ Mary said. ‘She will be in fancy. Surely she’ll remember us to-day of all days, and I know she’ll wish herself here once more. How long it is now since we heard from her. Only one letter since she reached Paris. You don’t suppose she is forgetting us with all the grandeur and the fine things she has?’