for the sake of protecting Nora:  her husband’s other wife, as in the merciful construction of her gentle spirit she had termed the unhappy girl!  But then, my readers, you must remember that Berenice was a Jewess.  This poor unloved Leah would have sheltered the beloved Rachel.  We all know how her generous intentions were carried out.  A second and a third day passed, and still there came no news of Herman.

Berenice, prostrated with the heart-wasting sickness of hope deferred, kept her own room.  Mrs. Brudenell was indignant at her son, not for his neglect of his lovely young wife, but for his indifference to a wealthy countess!  She deferred her journey to Washington in consideration of her noble daughter-in-law, and in the hope of her son’s speedy reappearance and reconciliation with his wife, when, she anticipated, they would all go to Washington together, where the Countess of Hurstmonceux would certainly be the lioness and the Misses Brudenell the belles of the season.

On the evening of the fourth day, while Berenice lay exhausted upon the sofa of her bedroom, her maid entered the chamber saying: 

“Please, my lady, you remember the young woman that was here on Friday evening?”

“Yes!” Berenice was up on her elbow in an instant, looking eagerly into the girl’s face.

“Your ladyship ordered me to make inquiries about her, but I could get no news except from the old man who took her home out of the snowstorm and who came back and said she was ill.”

“I know!  I know!  You told me that before.  But you have heard something else.  What is it?”

“My lady, the old woman Dinah, who went to nurse her, never came back till to-day; that is the reason I couldn’t hear any more news until to-night.”

“Well, well, well?  Your news!  Out with it, girl!”

“My lady, she is dead and buried!”

“Who?”

“The young woman, my lady.  She died on Saturday.  She was buried to-day.”

Berenice sank back on the sofa and covered her face with her hands.  So! her dangerous rival was gone; the poor unhappy girl was dead!  Berenice was jealous, but pitiful.  And she experienced in the same moment a sense of infinite relief and a feeling of the deepest compassion.

Neither mistress nor maid spoke for several minutes.  The latter was the first to break silence.

“My lady!”

“Well, Phoebe!”

“There was something else I had to tell you.”

“What was it?”

“The young woman left a child, my lady.”

“A child!” Again Berenice was up on her elbow, her eyes fixed upon the speaker and blazing with eager interest.

“It is a boy, my lady; but they don’t think it will live!”

“A boy!  He shall live!  He is mine—­my son!  I will have him.  Since his mother is dead, it is I who have the best right to him!” exclaimed the countess vehemently, rising to her feet.