A surprised snarl from within, followed by a sudden shuffling of feet as the two men leaped upright from what I presume had been a recumbent position, warned me to be ready to face defiance if not the fury of despair; and curbing with a determined effort the slight sinking of heart natural to a man of my make on the threshold of a very doubtful adventure, I awaited with as much apparent unconcern as possible, the quick advance of that light foot which seemed to be ready to perform all the biddings of these hardened wretches, much as it shrunk from following in the ways of their infamy.

“Ah miss,” said I, as the door opened revealing in the gap her white face clouded with some new and sudden apprehension, “I beg your pardon but I am an old man, and I got a letter to-day and my eyes are so weak with the work I’ve been doing that I cannot read it.  It is from some one I love, and would you be so kind as to read off the words for me and so relieve an old man from his anxiety.”

The murmur of suspicion behind her, warned her to throw wide open the door.  “Certainly,” said she, “if I can,” taking the paper in her hand.

“Just let me get a squint at that first,” said a sullen voice behind her; and the youngest of the two Schoenmakers stepped forward and tore the paper out of her grasp.

“You are too suspicious,” murmured she, looking after him with the first assumption of that air of power and determination which I had heard so eloquently described by the man who loved her.  “There is nothing in those lines which concerns us; let me have them back.”

“You hold your tongue,” was the brutal reply as the rough man opened the folded paper and read or tried to read what was written within.  “Blast it! it’s French,” was his slow exclamation after a moment spent in this way.  “See,” and he thrust it towards his father who stood frowning heavily a few feet off.

“Of course, it’s French,” cried the girl.  “Would you write a note in English to father there?  The man’s friends are French like himself, and must write in their own language.”

“Here take it and read it out,” commanded her father; “and mind you tell us what it means.  I’ll have nothing going on here that I don’t understand.”

“Read me the French words first, miss,” said I.  “It is my letter and I want to know what my friend has to say to me.”

Nodding at me with a gentle look, she cast her eyes on the paper and began to read: 

    “Calmez vous, mon amie, il vous aime et il vous cherche.  Dans
    quatre heures vous serez heureuse.  Allons du courage, et surtout
    soyez maitre de vous meme.”

“Thanks!” I exclaimed in a calm matter-of-fact way as I perceived the sudden tremor that seized her as she recognized the handwriting and realized that the words were for her.  “My friend says he will pay my week’s rent and bids me be at home to receive him,” said I, turning upon the two ferocious faces peering over her shoulder, with a look of meek unsuspiciousness in my eye, that in a theatre would have brought down the house.