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.
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