At length, on the tenth day, Dame Moret made her appearance, with a letter and a huge bundle of garments. “A letter from madame at last, monsieur. I have had one also, and here is a bundle of clothes made as if for my son, who is a tall man like yourself. In these garments you may walk about the country and fish to amuse yourself, for madame says you must not on any account think of escaping till you see Monsieur Plessis, who will bring a passport all ready for your use to travel into Flanders. But what an old gossip I am; you are dying to read your letter, which will of course tell you a great deal more, and better than I can.” “You are as kind to me as if I were one of your own family; and, believe me, I shall never forget in after years, if I am spared, Dame Moret and her kind daughters.” “You are a brave, handsome garçon, and God will restore you to your own country. And perhaps some of these days you may marry Mademoiselle Mabel; and if there is peace soon, I may live to see you both, and my dear mistress in this old château.” The young man felt his cheeks flush, for the dame’s words struck a chord in his heart. Might he ever feel sufficient love for Mabel Arden to make her his wife, provided her feelings for him were reciprocal? was a question he had often asked himself. He, however, replied— “She will not probably remember me when we meet again. She was very little more than thirteen when last I saw her; indeed, I was not more than seventeen myself. I doubt if we should recognise each other.” “I do not think so,” said the dame, thoughtfully; “she may have changed considerably, for a young girl springing into womanhood does change much; but you, I should say, have altered but little in features; you have gained height and strength, it may be; but she would know you, I feel satisfied, for Mademoiselle Mabel was no common child, even when only six years old. The memory of early years will cling to her as the ivy to the oak. But excuse me, monsieur, I will leave you to read your letter.”