She seemed, however, on a sudden to change her purpose, for, turning again into the hall, she approached Mr. Bentinck, and, speaking with a very fine assumption of timidity: "If it please your honor," she said, "was it a very thin paper that you mislaid, and twice folded?" "Yes," replied Mr. Bentinck very sharply. "Where is it?" "La, now," cries Prue, "where did I lay it? I did think perhaps it was of import, and know I did put it in safety." "Then find it," growled he so angrily that poor Prue appeared much frightened. "Nay, sir," she pleaded very piteously, "do not so frown upon a poor maid." She looked around a little, as in great puzzlement; then, feeling daintily beneath her stomacher, she produced the paper, crying triumphantly that she had said it was safe, and here it was. Mr. Bentinck was at once upon the paper like a hungry hawk, asking, so soon as it was safe in his hand, whether she had read what was there written. At which Prudence opened wide her blue eyes in an amazement vastly childlike. "And how does your honor think I should read French?" she asked. "And how know 't was French," retorted her inquisitor, with bitter keenness, "if you did not read?" But Prue was too strong for the great statesman. "Mercy on us, sir," she cried, clasping her hands most prayerfully, "do not hang me! I' fecks I did try to read, and making nothing of it, did know it for French." When Mr. Bentinck, for all reply, had tushed, pshawed, and growled a few words wholly inaudible, he turned sharply upon his heel and left them. And when he was well away M. de Rondiniacque, forgetful alike of pious vow and petulant threat, seized Prudence in his arms and very heartily embraced her. "By all my Huguenot ancestors!" he cried, kissing her vigorously to punctuate his oath, "but I do love thee, good wench." And 't is enough proof that she forgave him this breach of decorum that she said never a word of threat nor promise broken. "Was it not purely done?" she said, pushing him away. "Now tell me what was writ in the paper. Pray Heaven you did read enough." "All," replied M. de Rondiniacque. "But, though I put much faith in you, I know not yet what is your scheme, nor for what reason, if it be of use to us, you have returned to the Dutchman his lost paper." "'T is as needful he should know what there is written as we, if it is as I guess," said Prue. "And that I cannot tell until you give me its purport." "Somewhat in this way it ran, then," rejoined M. de Rondiniacque: "'Father Francis, otherwise and at present known as "James Marston, of the City of Oxford," fat, short, red periwig, his own hair tonsured----'" Prue's head had so far nodded to each particular, but at this she checked her pretty chin in mid-air. "Tonsured!" she cried; "and what is that?" "Shaven so," he replied, describing with his finger a ring upon the top of his head. "There is much more in the paper, however."