How truly Shakespeare knew the innermost heart of woman when he wrote: “She thank’d me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her.” As I told my tale her eyes opened wider and wider. I seemed to stand in her simple imagination like one of the heroes of old time. She did not realize that I had done nothing to help myself, that my escape had all been arranged for me. Her cheeks glowed with interest and sympathy. I think it must have been at that moment that the feeling for me was born which led her to so many kind acts in the next few days. “Oh,” she cried with a little gasp of breath. “I am so glad. You are so brave. Let me tell my father all about it.” “Mistress Van Volkenberg,” I replied, “will you grant me a favor?” “Anything, Monsieur St. Vincent.” “It is this. Do not tell your father. Do not tell anyone. Your father is often ill, and if I told him all it might excite him. Will you leave this to me?” “Yes, if you wish it.” “I do. You are very kind. Where were you going when I alarmed you so?” “I was going to the woods with a basket of flowers. Will you carry them for me?” We picked up the basket she had dropped and rearranged the flowers that had fallen upon the ground. Then we set out, taking a footpath through the woods, which brought us quickly to a little summer house perched high upon a jutting cliff. “This is the Hanging Rock, Monsieur St. Vincent. It is what gives the name to our estate. It was called so even before my father got possession of the rock itself. This is one of the last grants we received from Governor Fletcher. Governor Bellamont shows small favor to us.” Her sweet voice and innocent manner took my breath away. The relations between her father and the government were what I should hardly expect her to speak to me about; yet she did speak of them without the least hesitation or embarrassment. Could it be that she was innocent of all knowledge of what went on within the boundary of her father’s manor? It was an impossible thought at first, yet I could not associate a knowledge of such things with the expression of her face at that moment. Her features were lit up with a gentle sadness, such as one sees in the pictures of the saints. I could believe no wrong of her, yet how could I explain it? Did she not know that her sire had been expelled in disgrace from the governor’s council? Was her only knowledge of her father’s faults drawn from his unkindness to herself? She cut my meditations short by an abrupt question: “Will you carry my basket for me? I cut all the flowers in my garden yesterday and brought them here.”