The moment I saw it I knew Louise's hand; and, approaching the sconce, I tore it open and read--oh, how my heart beat! oh, how nearly were my eyes overflowing as I read the sweet, the dear, the tender, the affectionate words with which she greeted me. "Dearest, dearest Henry!" it began, "how can I ever thank you for the comfort, for the consolation, for the joy that your letter has given me! the only consolation, the only joy that I have had since you left me! I will not upbraid you for leaving me without bidding me adieu; for to fly was all that you could do, and to go without farewell saved me, perhaps, a long and bitter pang, even though it denied me a sad and painful pleasure. The news of your success, from your own hand, is indeed gratifying; but farther accounts of your success have now reached me, and I trust in Heaven that they may be true. "Oh, Henry! can I doubt anything that is told me of you, which represents you as braver, and nobler, and more generous than any one else? Perhaps it is all very foolish to think in this way; but you have been my companion from my childhood; the kindest, the dearest, the best of brothers to me! the one that I have loved the most on all the earth since my poor mother's death. How, then, can I think sufficiently of you? how can I think at all of any one else with hope and comfort than of you? My two poor brothers, Charles and Albert, are suffering under the same dark and cheerless fate as myself; and when we steal up to sit together in the room that once was yours, we talk of you and of all your kindness, and of the days that are gone by for ever; and we mingle our tears together when we think that we may never see him again whom we all loved so dearly. They indeed vow that, when they are able, they will fly to join you at the army, and fight under your sword. But what is to become of me? "But I will not make you sad, Henry, with my sadness; nor will I dwell upon all that is terrible to me, and painful in this house at this moment. From the little that you saw, you may conceive the rest; and nothing is too terrible to be true. Perhaps, if you were to write to my father, it might do good; for, though he is very much exasperated against you, and will not even hear your name mentioned from any of us, yet when I have heard other people praise you, and mention some high deed you have done, my father's eyes have looked bright, and I have the thought he seemed somewhat proud that you should be his near relation. Of his plans or his purposes at present I can give you no account. He is evidently wretched here; and I have heard some words spoken in regard to a journey to the capital if a truce or peace were to take place, or if a safeguard could be obtained from the court. When I see him so unhappy, I would fain console him, but he will not be consoled; and the moment I attempt to do it, the expression of his face changes from melancholy to anger.