“I do not blame her; I told you so.”

“You cover her errors with a veil of charity; that is what you mean, my lady!  She needs no such veil!  My sister is as innocent as an angel.  And you, my lady, are mistaken.”

“Mistaken? as to—­to—­Oh, Hannah! how am I mistaken?” asked the countess, with sudden eagerness, perhaps with sudden hope.

“If you will compose yourself, my lady, and come and sit down, I will tell you the truth, as I have told it to everybody.”

Lady Hurstmonceux went and dropped into her chair, and gazed at Hannah with breathless interest.

Hannah drew another forward and sat down opposite to the countess.

“Now then,” said Berenice eagerly.

“My lady, what I have to tell is soon said.  My sister was buried in her wedding-ring.  Her son was born in wedlock.”

The Countess of Hurstmonceux started to her feet, clasped her hands and gazed into Hannah’s very soul!  The light of an infinite joy irradiated her face.

“Is this true?” she exclaimed.

“It is true.”

“Then I have been mistaken!  Oh, how widely mistaken!  Thank Heaven!  Oh, thank Heaven!”

And the Countess of Hurstmonceux sank back in her chair, covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

Hannah felt very uncomfortable; her conscience reproached her; she was self-implicated in a deception; and this to one of her integrity of character was very painful.  Literally, she had spoken the truth; but the countess had drawn false inferences and deceived herself; and she could not undeceive her without breaking her oath to Nora and betraying Herman Brudenell.

Then she pitied that beautiful, pale woman who was weeping so violently.  And she arose and poured out the last of poor Nora’s bottle of wine and brought it to her, saying: 

“Drink this, my lady, and try and compose yourself.”

Berenice drank the wine and thanked the woman, and then said: 

“I was very wrong to take up such fancies as I did; but then, you do not know how strong the circumstances were that led me to such fancies.  I am glad and sorry and ashamed, all at once, Hannah!  Glad to find my own and my mother-in-law’s suspicions all unfounded; sorry that I ever entertained them against my dear husband; and ashamed—­oh, how much ashamed—­that I ever betrayed them to anyone.”

“You were seeking to do him a service, my lady, when you did so,” said Hannah remorsefully and compassionately.

“Yes, indeed I was!  And then I was not quite myself!  Oh, I have suffered so much in my short life, Hannah!  And I met such a cruel disappointment on my arrival here!  But there!  I am talking too much again!  Hannah, I entreat you to forget all that I have said to you.  And if you cannot forget it, I implore you most earnestly never to repeat it to anyone.”

“I will not indeed, madam.”

The Countess of Hurstmonceux arose and walked to the bed, turned down the shawl that covered the sleeping child, and gazed pitifully upon him.  Hannah did not now seek to prevent her.