e first, the second, the
third chamber. In the fourth Catharine was waiting for him.

Elizabeth would have given a year of her life to hear what Catharine
would say to him, and what reply he would make to the surprising
intelligence--a year of her life to be able to see his rapture, his
astonishment, and his delight. He was so handsome when he smiled, so
bewitching when his eyes blazed with love and pleasure.

Elizabeth was a young, impulsive child. She had a feeling as if she must
suffocate in the agony of expectation; her heart leaped into her
mouth; her breath was stifled in her breast, she was so impatient for
happiness.

"Oh, if he does not come soon I shall die!" murmured she. "Oh, if I
could only at least see him, or only hear him!" All at once she stopped;
her eyes flashed up, and a bewitching smile flitted across her features.
"Yes," said she, "I will see him, and I will hear him. I can do it, and
I will do it. I have the key which the queen gave me, and which opens
the door that separates my rooms from hers. With that key I may reach
her bed-chamber, and next to the bed-chamber is her boudoir, in which,
without doubt, she will receive the earl. I will enter quite softly,
and, hiding myself behind the hanging which separates the bed-chamber
from the boudoir, I shall be able to see him, and hear everything that
he says!"

She laughed out loud and merrily, like a child, and sprang for the key,
which lay on her writing-table. Like a trophy of victory she swung it
high above her on her hand and cried, "I will see him!" Then light,
joyful, and with beaming eye, she left the room.

She had conjectured rightly. Catharine received the earl in her boudoir.
She sat on the divan standing opposite the door which led into the
reception-room. That door was open, and so Catharine had a perfect view
of the whole of that large space. She could see the earl as he traversed
it. She could once more enjoy, with a rapture painfully sweet, his proud
beauty, and let her looks rest on him with love and adoration. But at
length he crossed the threshold of the boudoir; and now there was an end
of her happiness, of her sweet dream, and of her hopes and her rapture.
She was nothing more than the queen, the wife of a dying king; no longer
Earl Seymour's beloved, no longer his future and his happiness.

She had courage to greet him with a smile; and her voice did not tremble
when she bade him shut the door leading into the hall, and dr