"Yes." He paused and considered, then continued,—"You might write to—you might write to my friend, and tell her about the garden, and how I am now allowed to walk in it,—and about your father and your mother,—about yourself, too; anything that will make this place seem pleasant to her. You know the pleasant side of Foray, —give her that."
"Yes. Is she your mother?"
"No."
"Your sister, Sir?"
"No, Elizabeth. She and I were to have been married."
"Oh, Sir,—and you in Foray,—in a prison,—so far away!"
"Wide apart as death could put us. And shall I let you write to her?
Yes! we will triumph over this death and this grave!"
"By me!—yes,—I will tell her,—it shall surely be by me," said
Elizabeth, in a low voice.
"Then tell her;—you will be able, I know, to think of a great deal that is comforting. I should not remember it, I'm afraid, if I could write the letter. Tell her what fine music I have. You can say something, too, about the garden, as I said. You can speak of the view from this window. See! it is very fine. You can tell her—yes, you can tell her now, that I am well, Elizabeth."
"Oh, Sir, can I tell her you are well?"