With the calmness of despair Berenice read this cruel letter through to the end, and dropped it on her lap, and sat staring at it in silence.  Then, as if incredulous of its contents, or doubtful of its meaning, she took it up and read it again, and again let it fall.  And yet a third time—­after rapidly passing her hand to and fro across her forehead, as if that action would clear her vision—­she raised, re-perused, and laid aside the letter.  Then she firmly set her teeth, and slowly nodded her head, while for an instant a startling light gleamed from her deep black eyes.

Her faithful attendant, while seeming to be busy arranging the flasks on the dressing-table, furtively and anxiously watched her mistress, who at last spoke: 

“Phoebe!”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Bring me a glass of wine.”

The girl brought the required stimulant, and in handing it to her mistress noticed how deadly white her face had become.  And as the countess took the glass from the little silver waiter her hand came in contact with that of Phoebe, and the girl felt as if an icicle had touched her, so cold it was.

“Now wheel my writing-desk forward,” said the countess, as she sipped her wine.

The order was obeyed.

“And now,” continued the lady, as she replaced the glass and opened her desk, “pack up my wardrobe and jewels, and your own clothes.  Order the carriage to be at the door at eight o’clock, to take us to Baymouth.  We leave Baymouth for New York to-morrow morning, and New York for Liverpool next Saturday.”

“Now, glory be to Heaven for that, my lady; and I wish it had been years ago instead of to-day!” joyfully exclaimed the girl, as she went about her business.

“And so do I!  And so do I, with all my heart and soul!” thought Berenice, as she arranged her papers and took up a pen to write.  In an instant she laid it down again, and arose and walked restlessly up and down the floor, wringing her hands, and muttering to herself: 

“And this is the man for whose sake I sacrificed home, friends, country, and the most splendid prospects that ever dazzled the imagination of woman!  This is the man whom I have loved and watched and prayed for, all these long years, hoping against hope, and believing against knowledge.  If he had ceased to love me, grown tired of me, and wished to be rid of me, could he not have told me so, frankly, from the first?  It would have been less cruel than to have inflicted on me this long anguish of suspense! less cowardly than to have attempted to justify his desertion of me by a charge of crime!  What crime—­he knows no more than I do!  Oh, Herman!  Herman! how could you fall so low?  But I will not reproach you even in my thoughts.  But I must, I must forget you!”

She returned to her desk, sat down and took up her pen; but again she dropped it, bowed her head upon her desk, and wept: 

“Oh, Herman!  Herman! must I never hope to meet you again? never look into your dark eyes, never clasp your hand, or hear your voice again? never more? never more!  Must mine be the hand that writes our sentence of separation?  I cannot! oh!  I cannot do it, Herman!  And yet!—­it is you who require it!”