“Except the beloved of my husband,” murmured Berenice, in a low voice.

“That also! for, believe me, my dear, many men admire and love through other men’s eyes.  My son is one of the many.  Nothing in this world would bring him to your side so quickly as to see you the center of attraction in the first circles of the capital.”

“Ah, madam, the situation would lack the charm of novelty to him; he has been accustomed to seeing me fill similar ones in London and in Paris,” said the countess, with a proud though mournful smile.

Mrs. Brudenell’s face flushed as she became conscious of having made a blunder—­a thing she abhorred, so she hastened to say: 

“Oh, of course, my dear, I know, after the European courts, our republican capital must seem an anti-climax!  Still, it is the best thing I can offer you, and I counsel you to accept it.”

“I feel deeply grateful for your kindness, mamma; but you know I could not enter society, except under the auspices of my husband,” replied Berenice.

“You can enter society under the auspices of your husband’s mother, the very best chaperone you could possibly have,” said the lady coldly.

“I know that, mamma.”

“Then you will come with us?”

“Excuse me, madam; indeed I am not thankless of your thought of me.  But I cannot go; for even if I had the spirits to sustain the role of a woman of fashion in the gay capital this winter, I feel that in doing so I should still further displease and alienate my husband.  No, I must remain here in retirement, doing what good I can, and hoping and praying for his return,” sighed Berenice.

Mrs. Brudenell hastily rose from her seat.  She was not accustomed to opposition; she was too proud to plead further; and she was very much displeased with Berenice for disappointing her cherished plan of introducing her daughter, the Countess of Hurstmonceux, to the circles of Washington.

“The first dinner bell has rung some time ago, my dear.  I will not detain you longer.  Myself and daughters leave for town on Saturday.”

Berenice bowed gently, and went upstairs to change her dress for dinner.

On Saturday, according to programme, Mrs. Brudenell and her daughters went to town, traveling in their capacious family carriage, and Berenice was left alone.  Yes, she was left alone to a solitude of heart and home difficult to be understood by beloved and happy wives and mothers.  The strange, wild country, the large, empty house, the grotesque black servants, were enough in themselves to depress the spirits and sadden the heart of the young English lady.  Added to these were the deep wounds her affections had received by the contemptuous desertion of her husband; there was uncertainty of his fate, and keen anxiety for his safety; and the slow, wasting soul-sickness of that fruitless hope which is worse than despair.

Every morning, on rising from her restless bed, she would say to herself: