shoe tapping the floor impatiently. It was a picture to remember a
lifetime. I could feel my pulse quicken as I looked upon her. The
baroness stood, sober-faced, her eyes looking down, her fan moving
slowly. His Lordship rose and came to Louise.

"Come, now, my pretty prisoner; it is disagreeable, but you must
forgive me," he said.

[Illustration: "Come, now, my pretty prisoner; it is disagreeable,
but you must forgive me."]

She turned away from him, drying her eyes. Then presently their
beauty shone upon me.

"Grace au ciel!" she exclaimed, a great joy in her eyes and voice.
"It is M'sieur Bell. Sister--baroness--it is M'sieur Bell!"

I advanced to meet her, and took her hand, kissing it reverently.
She covered her face, her hand upon my shoulder, and wept in
silence. If it meant my death, I should die thanking God I knew,
or thought I knew, that she loved me.

"Ah, yes; it is M'sieur Bell--poor fellow!" said Louison, coming
quickly to me. "And you, my dear, you are Ma'm'selle Louise."

She spoke quickly in French, as if quite out of patience with the
poor diplomacy of her sister.

"I knew it was you, for I saw the emerald on your finger," she
added, turning to me, "but I could not tell her."