"Take her place, Rebecca?"

"My father hath the key--if--if--if I took her place, she might go
free."

"Take her place, child! What folly is this--dear, kind Rebecca? Would
't be any better to send you to the rope than Hortense? No--no--dear
child!"

At that her agitation abated, and she puzzled as if to say more.

"Dear Rebecca," said I, comforting her as I would a sister, "dear
child, run home. Forget not little Hortense in thy prayers."

May the angel of forgiveness spread a broader mantle across our
blunders than our sins, but could I have said worse?

"I have cooked dainties with my own hands. I have sent her cakes every
day," sobbed Rebecca.

"Go home now, Rebecca," I begged.

But she stood silent.

"Rebecca--what is it?"

"You have not been to see me for a year, Ramsay."

I could scarce believe my ears.