etter. She glanced hastily over his second epistle, and,
without further delay, wrote a few frigid lines conveying a definite
refusal of the proposed honor with which he had followed his proposition
of dishonor.

It is needless to describe Lord Linden's emotions when this response
reached him. Madeleine's language was so cuttingly cold, yet so full of
dignity, that he could only curse the rash blindness which could have
permitted him to make dishonorable advances to such a woman. He ordered
his trunk to be packed, and left Washington by that afternoon's train.

Bertha had not seen Madame de Gramont from the time she locked herself
in her chamber until the breakfast hour, next day. The maid Mademoiselle
de Merrivale brought with her from Paris was in the habit of attending
the countess as punctiliously as she did her own mistress; but her
services were, for the first time, dispensed with on the night previous.
Bertha was oppressed by a vaguely uncomfortable sensation when she
entered the room where breakfast awaited her, and found the apartment
vacant. In a few moments the countess entered.

How frightfully old she had grown in a single night! Her step, which
used to be so firm and measured, was feeble, uncertain, and heavy.
Sixty-six years had not bowed her straight shoulders; but now they
stooped. The blow of an iron hand had bent them at last! Her features
had grown sharp and hard, and the lines looked as though they had been
cut to twice their usual depth; the mouth appeared to have fallen, the
corners pressing downward; one might have thought that tears had scalded
away the lustre and dimmed the vision of the dark eyes that yesterday
flashed with such steel-like brilliancy. The soft, white locks, that
were usually arranged with so much skill, hung partially uncurled, and
scarcely smoothed about her face, adding to the desolation of her whole
appearance.

Bertha was impressed with greater awe than she had ever experienced
toward her aunt in the latter's most imperious moments; yet the young
girl mustered courage to advance and embrace her,--more timidly,
perhaps, but also more tenderly than was her wont. The countess
permitted her own cold lips to sweep Bertha's forehead; but they could
hardly be said to press upon it a kiss.

As they sat at table, Bertha, whose tongue had a gift for prattling,
could not make an effort to speak. The countess had not tasted food
since the light, noonday repast of the day previous