"I can write," she answered, proudly, standing forward like a young
brave eager for orders. "I can write. My father taught me."

"You might write"--

"A letter?" she asked, breathless.

"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.