Hannah sprang after her, clasped her around the waist, and holding her tightly, cried out in terror: 

“Don’t, my lady! for Heaven’s sake, don’t hurt the child!  He is such a poor little mite; he cannot live many days; he must die, and it will be a great blessing that he does; but still, for all that, I mustn’t see him killed before my very face.  No, you shan’t, my lady! you shan’t go anigh him!  You shan’t, indeed!” exclaimed Hannah, as the countess struggled once to free herself.

“How dare you hold me?” exclaimed Berenice.

“Because I am strong enough to do so, my lady, without your leave!  And because you are not yourself, my lady, and you might kill the child,” said Hannah resolutely enough, though, to tell the truth, she was frightened almost out of her senses.

“Not myself?  Are you crazy, woman?” indignantly demanded Berenice.

“No, my lady, but you are!  Oh, do try to compose your mind, or you may do yourself a mischief!” pleaded Hannah.

Berenice suddenly ceased to struggle, and became perfectly quiet.  Hannah was resolved not to be deceived, and held her firmly as ever.

“Hannah,” said the countess, “I begin to see how it is that you think me mad.  You, a Christian maid, and I, a Jewish matron, do not understand each other.  We think, and look, and speak from different points of view.  You think I mean to say that the child upon the bed is the son of my own bosom!”

“You said so, my lady.”

“No, I said he was my son—­I meant my son by marriage and by adoption.”

“I do not understand you, madam.”

“Well, I fear you don’t.  I will try to explain.  He is”—­the lady’s voice faltered and broke down—­“he is my husband’s son, and so, his mother being dead, he becomes mine,” breathed Berenice, in a faint voice.

“Madam!” exclaimed Hannah, drawing back and reddening to the very edge of her hair.

“He is the son of Herman Brudenell, and so—­”

“My lady! how dare you say such a thing as that?” fiercely interrupted Hannah.

“Because, oh, Heaven! it is true,” moaned Berenice; “it is true, Hannah!  Would to the Lord it were not!”

“Lady Hurstmonceux—­”

“Stop! listen to me first, Hannah!  I do not blame your poor sister.  Heaven knows I pitied her very much, and did all I could to protect her the night she came to Brudenell Hall.”

“I know you did, madam,” said Hannah, her heart softening at the recollection of what she had heard of the countess’ share in the scene between Nora and Mrs. Brudenell.

“She knew nothing of me when she met my husband, and she could not help loving him any more than I could—­any more than I could,” she repeated lowly to herself; “and so, though it wrings my heart to think of it, I cannot blame her, Hannah—­”

“My lady, you have no right to blame her,” interrupted Nora’s sister.

“I know it,” meekly replied the wronged wife.