"Yes, dear friend, it is Eloise," she answered, gazing anxiously into
my face, and clinging to my strong hands as though fearful lest I might
tear them away when she spoke those hard words which must follow. "Yet
surely you know, Geoffrey Benteen, that I am Mademoiselle Lafrénière no
longer?"

It seemed to me my very heart stopped beating, so intense was the pain
which overswept it. Yet I held to the soft hands, for there was such a
pitiful look of suffering upon her upturned face as to steady me.

"No, I knew it not," I answered brokenly. "I--I have been buried in
the forest all these years since we parted, where few rumors of the
town have reached me. But let that pass; it--it is easy to see you are
now in great sorrow. Was it because of this--in search of help, in
need, perchance--that you have sent for me?"

She bowed her head; a tear fell upon my broad hand and glistened there.

"Yes, Geoffrey."

The words were scarcely more than a whisper; then the low voice seemed
to strengthen with return of confidence, her dark eyes anxiously
searching my face.

"I sent for you, Geoffrey, because of deep trouble; because I am left
alone, without friends, saving only the _père_. I know well your
faithfulness. In spite of the wrong, the misunderstanding between
us--and for it I take all the blame--I have ever trusted in your word,
your honor; and now, when I can turn nowhere else for earthly aid, the
good God has guided you back to New Orleans. Geoffrey Benteen, do not