ng her!"

And Maurice went.

CHAPTER LV.

AMEN.

Maurice, when he opened the door of his grandmother's drawing-room,
found the apartment vacant. The countess was still in her own chamber
issuing orders to the bewildered Adolphine, whose packing process
advanced but indifferently. Bertha had retired to her room. Maurice
passed into his father's apartment, where Mrs. Gratacap sat knitting,
and, in a few words, told her what had occurred.

"Poor dear!" cried the compassionate nurse. "I feared it would
be so. I saw it coming this last week; and a third stroke is a
death-knell--that's certain! But it will be a blessed escape for the
poor dear; so don't take on, Mr. Morris" (this was her nearest approach
to saying "_Maurice_"). "You'll need all your spirit to get along with
the old lady; though, if she were the north pole itself, I should think
this blow would break up her ice."

"Will you have the goodness to desire my cousin to come here? I had
better tell her first," said Maurice.

Mrs. Gratacap withdrew and quickly returned accompanied by Bertha who
was trembling with alarm; for the messenger had lost no time in making
the sad communication.

"I cannot tell my grandmother, Bertha, in the presence of Adolphine.
Will you not beg your aunt to come to me in the drawing-room?" said
Maurice.

Bertha had scarcely courage to obey, she had such a dread of witnessing
the countess's agitation; for she felt certain it would take the form of
anger against Madeleine and Maurice. With hesitating steps the young
girl entered the apartment where the countess sat. She had been much
irritated by Adolphine's stupidity, and cried out,--

"Positively, Bertha, this maid of yours has been totally spoiled by her
residence in this barbarous country. She is worth nothing; she has no
head; and she even presumes to offer her advice and suggest what would
be the best mode of packing this or that! It is fortunate for us that
this is our last day in this odious city, and that we shall soon be on
our way back to Brittany. But Adolphine is completely ruined; there is
no tolerating her."

"I am very sorry," said Bertha, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

"You need not cry about it," retorted the countess, angrily. "How often
have I tried to impress upon you that this habit of evincing emotion is,
in the highest degree, plebeian! Tears are very well for a milk-maid,
but exceedingly unbecoming a lady. They are an unmistakable sign