“It’s from Cousin Eleanor,” Honora volunteered.

Aunt Mary laid down her sewing, smoothed the ruffles of her sacque, adjusted her spectacles, opened the envelope, and began to read.  Presently the letter fell to her lap, and she wiped her glasses and glanced at Honora, who was deep in her book once more.  And in Honora’s brain, as she read, was ringing the refrain of the prisoner: 

“Orleans, Beaugency! 
Notre Dame de Clery! 
Vendome!  Vendome! 
Quel chagrin, quel ennui
De compter toute la nuit
Les heures, les heures!”.

The verse appealed to Honora strangely; just as it had appealed to Ibbetson.  Was she not, too, a prisoner.  And how often, during the summer days and nights, had she listened to the chimes of the Pilgrim Church near by?

“One, two, three, four! 
One, two, three, four!”

After Uncle Tom had watered his flowers that evening, Aunt Mary followed him upstairs and locked the door of their room behind her.  Silently she put the letter in his hand.  Here is one paragraph of it: 

“I have never asked to take the child from you in the summer, because she has always been in perfect health, and I know how lonely you would have been without her, my dear Mary.  But it seems to me that a winter at Sutcliffe, with my, girls, would do her a world of good just now.  I need not point out to you that Honora is, to say the least, remarkably good looking, and that she has developed very rapidly.  And she has, in spite of the strict training you have given her, certain ideas and ambitions which seem to me, I am sorry to say, more or less prevalent among young American women these days.  You know it is only because I love her that I am so frank.  Miss Turner’s influence will, in my opinion, do much to counteract these tendencies.”

Uncle Tom folded the letter, and handed it back to his wife.

“I feel that we ought not to refuse, Tom.  And I am afraid Eleanor is right.”

“Well, Mary, we’ve had her for seventeen years.  We ought to be willing to spare her for—­how many months?”

“Nine,” said Aunt Mary, promptly.  She had counted them.  “And Eleanor says she will be home for two weeks at Christmas.  Seventeen years!  It seems only yesterday when we brought her home, Tom.  It was just about this time of day, and she was asleep in your arms, and Bridget opened the door for us.”  Aunt Mary looked out of the window.  “And do you remember how she used to play under the maple there, with her dolls?”

Uncle Tom produced a very large handkerchief, and blew his nose.

“There, there, Mary,” he said, “nine months, and two weeks out at Christmas.  Nine months in eighteen years.”

“I suppose we ought to be very thankful,” said Aunt Mary.  “But, Tom, the time is coming soon—­”

“Tut tut,” exclaimed Uncle Tom.  He turned, and his eyes beheld a work of art.  Nothing less than a porcelain plate, hung in brackets on the wall, decorated by Honora at the age of ten with wild roses, and presented with much ceremony on an anniversary morning.  He pretended not to notice it, but Aunt Mary’s eyes were too quick.  She seized a photograph on her bureau, a photograph of Honora in a little white frock with a red sash.