“Oh, Phoebe,” she exclaimed, “how could you have disobeyed me so!  It is after ten o’clock!”

“My lady, I will tell you the truth.  You were so restless last night that you could not sleep, and I was so anxious for fear you were going to be ill, that indeed I could not.  And so I lay awake listening at you till after four o’clock this morning, when I dropped off out of sheer exhaustion, and so I overslept myself until half-past nine; and then my lady, I thought, as you had had such a bad night, and as it was too late for you to keep your appointment with yourself, and as you were sleeping so finely, I had better not wake you.  I beg your pardon, my lady, if I did wrong, and I hope no harm has been done.”

“Not much harm, Phoebe; but something that should have been finished by this time is yet to begin—­that is all.  In future, Phoebe, try to obey me.”

“Indeed I will, my lady.”

“And now do my hair as quickly as possible.”

Phoebe’s nimble fingers soon accomplished their task.

“And now go order the carriage to come round directly; and then bring me a cup of coffee,” said the lady, rising to adjust her own dress.

Phoebe hurried off to obey, and soon returned, bringing a delicate little breakfast served on a tray.

By the time the countess had drunk the coffee and tasted the rice waffles and broiled partridge, the carriage was announced.

Mrs. Brudenell met her in the lower hall.

“Ah, Berenice, my dear, I am glad to see that you are going for an airing at last.  The morning is beautiful after the storm,” she said.

“Yes, mamma,” replied the countess, rather avoiding the interview.

“Which way will you drive, my dear?”

“I think through the valley; it is sheltered from the wind there.  Good-morning!”

And the lady entered the carriage and gave her order.

The carriage road through the valley was necessarily much longer and more circuitous than the footpath with which we are so familiar.  The footpath, we know, went straight down the steep precipice of Brudenell hill, across the bottom, and then straight up the equally steep ascent of Hut hill.  Of course this route was impracticable for any wheeled vehicle.  The carriage therefore turned off to the left into a road that wound gradually down the hillside and as gradually ascended the opposite heights.  The carriage drew up at a short distance from the hut, and the countess alighted and walked to the door.  We have seen what a surprise her arrival caused, and now we must return to the interview between the wife of Herman and the sister of Nora.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE COUNTESS AND THE CHILD.

  With no misgiving thought or doubt
  Her fond arms clasped his child about
  In the full mantle of her love;
    For who so loves the darling flowers
    Must love the bloom of human bowers,
  The types of brightest things above. 
  One day—­one sunny winter day—­
    She pressed it to her tender breast;
  The sunshine of its head there lay
    As pillowed on its native rest.