One day a letter was brought in, post-marked "Philadelphia." It was from Madame de Frontignac; it was in French, and ran as follows:
|
 | | "M
Y DEAR LITTLE
W
HITE
R
OSE
:
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| | "I am longing to see you once more, and before long I shall be in Newport. Dear little Mary, I am sad, very sad;the days seem all of them too long; and every morning I look out of my window and wonder why I was born. I am not so happy as I used to be, when I cared for nothing but to sing and smooth my feathers like the birds. That is the best kind of life for us women;if we love anything better than our clothes, it is sure to bring us great sorrow. For all that, I can't help thinking it is very noble and beautiful to love;love is very beautiful, but very, very sad. My poor dear little white cat, I should like to hold you a little while to my heart;it is so cold all the time, and aches so, I wish I were dead; but then I am not good enough to die. The Abbé says, we must offer up our sorrow to God as a satisfaction for our sins. I have a good deal to offer, because my nature is strong and I can feel a great deal.
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| | "But I am very selfish, dear little Mary, to think only of myself, when I know how you must suffer. Ah! but you knew he loved you truly, the poor dear boy!that is something. I pray daily for his soul; don't think it wrong of me; you know it is our religion;we should all do our best for each other.
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| | "Remember me tenderly to Mrs. Marvyn. Poor mother!the bleeding heart of the Mother of God alone can understand such sorrows.
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| | "I am coming in a week or two, and then I have many things to say to
ma belle rose blanche;
till then I kiss her little hands.
|
| | "V
IRGINIE DE
F
RONTIGNAC
."
|
One beautiful afternoon, not long after, a carriage stopped at the cottage, and Madame de Frontignac alighted. Mary was spinning in her garret-boudoir, and Mrs. Scudder was at that moment at a little distance from the house, sprinkling some linen, which was laid out to bleach on the green turf of the clothes-yard.
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