There was no fireplace, the roof leaked, and
the only furniture consisted of a bench to sit on and a pile of
skins for bed. Alice looked charmingly forlorn peeping out of the
wraps in which she was bundled against the cold, her hair fluffed
and rimpled in shining disorder around her face.
The guard let Jean in and closed the door, himself staying
outside.
Alice was as glad to see the poor lad as if they had been parted
for a year. She hugged him and kissed his drawn little face.
"You dear, good Jean!" she murmured, "you did not forget me."
"I brought you something," he whispered, producing the book.
Alice snatched it, looked at it, and then at Jean.
"Why, what did you bring this for? you silly Jean! I didn't want
this. I don't like this book at all. It's hateful. I despise it.
Take it back."
"There's something in it for you, a paper with writing on it;
Lieutenant Beverley wrote it on there. It's shut up between the
leaves about the middle."
"Sh-s-sh! not so loud, the guard'll hear you," Alice breathlessly
whispered, her whole manner changing instantly. She was trembling,
and the color had been whisked from her face, as the flame from a
candle in a sudden draught.
She found the note and read it a dozen times without a pause, her
eyes leaping along the lines back and forth with pathetic
eagerness and concentration.
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