"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?"

"Yes,--yes,--say so. Besides, it is true. But you must add that I
have no hope now of our meeting in this world. She can bear it, for
she is strong, like you. She, too, is a soldier's daughter. If you
will say those things, I will tell you her name. That shall be our
secret." In this speech his tone was altogether that of one who
takes the place of a comforter.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, calm and attentive. It was quite impossible
that she should so mistake as to allow the knowledge that was
quickening her perception into pain to appear.

"You must tell her about yourself," said he, again.

"What shall I say? There is nothing about myself to tell, Mr. Manuel."

"Is there not? That would be strange. Tell her what music you like
best to hear your father play. She will understand you by that. Tell
her anything,--she will not call it a trifle. What if she answers
you in the same mood? Should we call it foolish, if she told us her
thoughts, and the events that take place daily in her quiet life?
You can tell her what songs you love to sing. And if she does not