“Your friend,

“LE BLANC.”

When George wrote that he hoped for good fortune, I knew he had sound reason to expect it, for he was one who never permitted a mere possibility to take the form of hope, nor hope, however assuring, to take the aspect of certainty.  Knowing this to be true, I found great joy in the letter, and when I told Frances, she did not pause even to give me one smile of thanks, but broke into a flood of tears and seemed to take great happiness in her tribulation.

I told Frances that we should answer the letter at once, and suggested that she have hers ready in my hands the following day, if she wished to write one.  I also suggested that we meet in Bettina’s parlor, where Frances’s letter could be rewritten in cipher.  We trusted Bettina as we trusted ourselves, and when we told her the good news, she clapped her hands for joy, laughing, yet ready to weep, and was as happy as even she could be, which was very happy indeed.

After we had talked, laughed, and cried a reasonable time in Betty’s parlor, Frances handed me her letter, which was a bulky document, well taped and waxed.

“It will require a week for me to translate this,” I remarked, weighing the letter in my hand.

“What do you mean by translating it?” she asked in surprise.

“I must write it out in cipher.  Hamilton directed that all letters should be sent in that form,” I answered, amused at her alarm.

“No, no!” she cried, snatching the letter from me, pressing it to her breast and blushing to her ears.  “You shall not see my letter!”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” she answered.

“That is no reason,” I replied.  “Of course you have written nothing that you would not want me or your father to see?”

“Well, yes, I have,” she returned emphatically.  “A great deal.  Would you, Betty, want any one to see such a letter written by yourself?”

“I suppose I could write a letter which I should want but one person in all the world to see,” returned Betty, arching her eyebrows.

“To whom would it be directed, Betty?” I asked, to tease her.

A faint expression of reproach came to her eyes, but after a moment of pretty hesitancy, she answered boldly:—­

“Since you are so unwise as to ask, I’ll answer in like folly.  The letter could be directed to but one person in the world—­you.”

I had received more than I had expected, and though I longed to make a suitable return, I dared not for the sake of my vows, so we all remained silent, and somewhat embarrassed, for a minute or two.

Turning to Frances, I said:  “If you don’t want me to read your letter, I’ll give you the key, and you may make it into cipher.”  But after examining the key, she declared that she could never learn to use it, and I suggested that she write a shorter letter in terms fit for a modest man to read.

The next day she handed me a shorter letter, saying that she had cut and pruned it till there was nothing left worth sending, but I assured her that George would think otherwise.