en she would close them and seem to rest,
as if from some great exertion.

Anton looked with sincere sympathy at the invalid. Whenever there was a
pause in the game, he took the opportunity of quietly stepping to the
sofa and asking her commands. It was a pleasure to him to hand her even
a glass of water, or take a message for her. He gazed with admiration at
the delicate face, which, pale and thin as it was, retained all its
beauty of outline. There was a silent understanding between the two. She
spoke, indeed, less to him than to the rest; for while she often
addressed her husband in a cheerful tone, or followed Fink's lively
narratives with looks and gestures of interest, she did not take the
trouble of hiding her weakness from Anton. Alone with him, she would
collapse or gaze absently straight before her; but when she did look at
him, it was with the calm confidence with which we are inspired by an
old friend from whom we have no longer any secrets. Perhaps this arose
from the baroness being able fully to appreciate his worth--perhaps,
too, it arose from her never having looked at him in any other light
than that of an obliging domestic since he first promised his services;
but had this view of hers been discernible to our hero, it would in no
way have shaken his allegiance to the noble lady. She seemed to him
perfect, just as she was--a picture that rejoiced the heart of all who
came within its influence. He could not get rid of the impression that
some external cause, perhaps one of those letters he had himself given
her, was answerable for the change in her health; for one of them was
directed in a trembling hand, and had an unpleasant look about it, which
had made Anton instinctively feel that it contained bad news. One
evening, while the others were at the card-table, the invalid's head
sunk down from the silken cushions; Anton having arranged them more
comfortably, she looked at him gratefully, and told him in a whisper how
weak she was. "I wish to speak with you once more alone," continued she,
after a pause; "not now, but the time will come;" and then she looked
upward with an expression of anguish that filled Anton's heart with
painful fears.

Neither the baron nor Lenore, however, shared his anxiety.

"Mamma has often suffered from similar attacks of weakness before," said
the latter. "The summer is her best cure, and I hope every thing from
warmer weather."

But indeed Lenore was too preoccupied to be