up and down the cage bars soothingly, her voice now and again
interjecting soft reflections and exclamations.

"Shall I set it free?" I asked her.

She turned upon me and replied, "Ah, monsieur, I hoped you
would--without my asking. You are a prisoner too," she added; "one
captive should feel for another."

"And the freeman for both," I answered meaningly, as I softly
opened the cage.

She did not drop her eyes, but raised them shining honestly and
frankly to mine, and said, "I wished you to think that."

Opening the cage door wide, I called the little captive to
freedom. But while we stood close by it would not stir, and the
look in its eyes became wilder. I moved away, and Alixe followed
me. Standing beside an old well we waited and watched. Presently
the hawk dropped from the perch, hopped to the door, then with a
wild spring was gone, up, up, up, and was away over the maple woods
beyond, lost in the sun and the good air.

I know not quite why I dwell on this scene, save that it throws
some little light upon her nature, and shows how simple and yet
deep she was in soul, and what was the fashion of our friendship.
But I can perhaps give a deeper insight of her character if I here
set down the substance of a letter written about that time, which
came into my possession long afterwards. It was her custom to
write her letters first in a book, and afterwards to copy them