—­Thomas Buchanan Reed.

Lady Hurstmonceux and Hannah Worth sat opposite each other in silence.  The lady with her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the floor—­Hannah waiting for the visitor to disclose the object of her visit.

Reuben Gray had retired to the farthest end of the room, in delicate respect to the lady; but finding that she continued silent, it at last dawned upon his mind that his absence was desirable.  So he came forward with awkward courtesy, saying: 

“Hannah, I think the lady would like to be alone with you; so I will bid you good-day, and come again to-morrow.”

“Very well, Reuben,” was all that the woman could answer in the presence of a third person.

And after shaking Hannah’s hand, and pulling his forelock to the visitor, the man went away.

As soon as he was clearly gone the countess turned to the weaver and said: 

“Hannah—­your name is Hannah, I think?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Well, Hannah, I have come to thank you for your tender care of my son, and to relieve you of him!” said the countess.

“Madam!” exclaimed the amazed woman, staring point-blank at the visitor.

“Why, what is the matter, girl?  What have I said that you should glare at me in that way?” petulantly demanded the lady.

“Madam, you astonish me!  Your son is not here.  I know nothing about your son; not even that you had a son,” replied Hannah.

“Oh, I see,” said the lady, with a faint smile; “you are angry because I have left him on your hands so many days.  That is pardonable in you.  But, you see, my girl, it was not my fault.  I never even heard of the little fellow’s existence until late last night.  I could not sleep for thinking of him.  And I came here as soon as I had had my breakfast.”

“Madam, can a lady have a son and not know it?” exclaimed Hannah, her amazement fast rising to alarm, for she was beginning to suppose her visitor a maniac escaped from Bedlam.

“Nonsense, Hannah; do not be so hard to propitiate, my good woman!  I have explained to you how it happened!  I came as soon as I could!  I am willing to reward you liberally for all the trouble you have had with him.  So now show me my son, there’s a good soul.”

“Poor thing! poor, poor thing! so young and so perfectly crazy!” muttered Hannah, looking at the countess with blended pity and fear.

“Come, Hannah, show me my son, and have done with this!” said the visitor, rising.

“Don’t, my lady; don’t go on in this way; you know you have no son; be good, now, and tell me if you really are the Countess of Hurstmonceux; or if not, tell me who you are, and where you live, and let me take you back to your friends,” pleaded Hannah, taking her visitor by the hands.

“Oh, there he is now!” exclaimed the countess, shaking Hannah off, and going towards the bed where she saw the babe lying.