At length she brought the sheet of paper, on which this sketch was drawn, to Manuel, and laid it before him.  She did this without any accompanying word of explanation.  In the foreground was the garden, stretching up the slope of the hill towards the top, where the fort-wall began; beyond, fort, barracks, settlement,—­and still beyond, the sea.  The island of Foray, as thus represented, appeared like many other views on paper, very pleasing and attractive.  Nature is not responsible for sin and suffering, that she should veil her glory wherever these may choose to pitch their tent.

The prisoner took the drawing from the table where she had laid it, and scanned it closely.

“You have left out my house,” said he.

“There was no room for it,” she answered.

“True!” He understood her.  “Do you know whom this is for, Mr. Manuel?

“Whom is it for, Elizabeth?”

“For Madeline; is it a pretty view?”

“Really for her, Elizabeth?”

“Surely.  Her eyes shall look on the same view as yours.”

“The fort, flag, sea-wall, burial-ground, ocean, barracks, garden; —­it is well done.—­Now I will tell you of the place where it will find her.”

He paused a moment ere he began that description.  He looked at the quiet figure of the child for whom he dared recall the past.  She stood with folded hands, so fair, so young, the sight was a refreshment, and a strange assurance always, to his weary eyes and weary heart.  Never did she look so lovely to him as now when he was about to speak again to her of his life’s love for another.

“It was once a magnificent estate,” he began.

“Oh, is she a grand lady?” broke from Elizabeth.

“Yes, a grand lady.  You speak well,” replied Manuel, with a smile.  “The estate was once ten times as large as this island.  Towns and villages are built over the land now, but the old house stands as it has stood through ten generations.  There she lives.  If she stands by the library-window today, she can see the church built by her great-grandfather, and the little town of Desperiers, which had in his day a population of tenantry.  She can see the ponds and the park, and a garden where there are hothouses, and graperies, and conservatories, and winding walks where you might walk all day and find something new to surprise and delight you at every turn.  There is a tower that commands a view of fifty miles in one direction.  The old house is full of treasure.  She is mistress of all,—­the only representative of a long line of noble men and beautiful women who have dispensed magnificent hospitality there.  The last time I saw her, Elizabeth, she was standing in the library, a woman so beautiful and so strong you would not have thought that trouble could approach her.  It came through me.  I opened those ancient gates for the black train, —­I, who loved no mortal as I loved her!  But I lost her in my fight for Truth.  Shall I complain?  Her heart was with mine in that struggle.  Cannot Truth comfort her?”