But this she had undertaken was not a repetition of what she had done before.  With painful anxiety she scrutinized her words, her thoughts, her feelings.  The work was a labor of love; the loving best know what anguish their labor sometimes costs them.  The pain of this letter was not fairly understood by her who endured it,—­it could not be shared.

Why was she so cautious? why in her caution lurked so much of fear?  Perhaps she might have answered, if questioned by one she trusted, that further intrusion of herself than should serve as a veil for the really important information she had to convey would be cruel intrusion.  But there was a very different reason; it had to do with the sudden revelation made to herself when her father wept at the prisoner’s hard fate,—­a revelation that terrified her, and influenced every succeeding movement; it had to do with the illumination that came when Manuel told her the sad secret of his heart,—­with that moment when she stood up stronger in love than in fear, stronger in devotion than in pride, strong for self-sacrifice, like one who bears a charmed life pierced to the heart, and never so capable as then.

More than once did Elizabeth rewrite that letter.  More than once in the progress to its completion did she break away from the strange task, that had evidence of strangeness or of labor, to seek in the garden, or with her needle, or in the society of father or mother, deliverance from the trouble that disturbed her.  In the toils of many an argument with her heart and conscience was she caught; but even through her doubting of the work she had engaged to perform, she persevered in its continuance, till the letter was ready for address.

It was surely right to aid, and comfort by such aid, one so unfortunate as this prisoner; yet her parents must not be implicated by such transaction.  Therefore they must be kept in ignorance, that, if blame fell anywhere, it might not fall on them.  So she satisfied her conscience;—­love will not calculate coldly.  But it was less easy to satisfy her heart.

She had lived but sixteen years; she looked to her youth as to a protector, while it rebuked her.  She leaned upon it, while daily she took to herself the part of womanhood, its duties and its dignity.  He had called her a child; she called herself a child.  She was careful to let this estimate of herself appear in that letter; and in what she undertook she was entirely successful; Madeline Desperiers would be sure to read it as the letter of a child.

When all was done Elizabeth repeated to Manuel the substance of this letter.  He praised it.  Jealous scrutiny would find it difficult to lay its finger on a passage, and condemn the writer for evading the law concerning the prisoner.  When she signed and sealed the letter, addressed it, and carried it away with her to mail, he was satisfied; his praise was sweet to the girl who had earned it.

No sooner was this work off her hands than another engaged her.  With a purpose prompted may-be by her angel, certainly by no human word, and unshared by any human intelligence, Elizabeth began to make a sketch of the island as seen from Manuel’s prison-window.  She made the sketch from memory, correcting it by observation when occasion called her to the prisoner’s room.