“Put up your purse, lady!  It is not help that I want—­save from God!  I want but a true answer to one single question, if you will give it to me.”

“Certainly, I will, my poor creature; but stand nearer the fire; it will dry your clothes while we talk.”

“Thank you, madam, I do not need to.”

“Well, then, ask me the question that you wish to have answered.  Don’t be afraid, I give you leave, you know,” said the lady kindly.

Nora hesitated, shivered, and gasped; but could not then ask the question that was to confirm her fate; it was worse than throwing the dice upon which a whole fortune was staked; it was like giving the signal for the ax to fall upon her own neck.  At last, however, it came, in low, fearful, but distinct words: 

“Madam, are you the wife of Mr. Herman Brudenell?”

“Nora Worth, how dare you?  Leave the room and the house this instant, before I send for a constable and have you taken away?” exclaimed Mrs. Brudenell, violently pulling at the bell-cord.

“Mamma, she is insane, poor thing! do not be hard on her,” said Lady Hurstmonceux gently; and then turning to poor Nora she answered, in the manner of one humoring a maniac: 

“Yes, my poor girl, I am the wife of Mr. Herman Brudenell.  Can I do anything for you?”

“Nothing, madam,” was the answer that came sad, sweet, and low as the wail of an Aeolian harp swept by the south wind.

The stranger lady’s eyes were bent with deep pity upon her; but before she could speak again Mrs. Brudenell broke into the discourse by exclaiming: 

“Do not speak to her, Berenice!  I warned you not to let her speak to you, but you would not take my advice, and now you have been insulted.”

“But, mamma, she is insane, poor thing; some great misery has turned her brain; I am very sorry for her,” said the kind-hearted stranger.

“I tell you she is not!  She is as sane as you are!  Look at her!  Not in that amazed, pitying manner, but closely and critically, and you will see what she is; one of those low creatures who are the shame of women and the scorn of men.  And if she has misery for her portion, she has brought it upon herself, and it is a just punishment.”

The eyes of Lady Hurstmonceux turned again upon the unfortunate young creature before her, and this time she did examine her attentively, letting her gaze rove over her form.

This time Nora did not lift up her hands to cover her burning face; that marble face could never burn or blush again; since speaking her last words Nora had remained standing like one in a trance, stone still, with her head fallen upon her breast, and her arms hanging listlessly by her side.  She seemed dead to all around her.

Not so Lady Hurstmonceux; as her eyes roved over this form of stone her pale face suddenly flushed, her dark eyes flashed, and she sprang up from the sofa, asking the same question that Mrs. Brudenell had put the evening before.