ite and gold, like the room, and as cold, and played
to her mother's pitiless ears.

She went slowly into the drawing-room. Empty, it was a dreary place. The
heavy chandeliers of gold and cut glass were unlighted. The crimson and
gilt chairs were covered with white linen. Only the piano, a gleaming
oasis in a desert of polished floor, was lighted, and that by two tall
candles in gilt candlesticks that reached from the floor. Hilda, going
reluctantly to her post, was the only bit of life and color in the room.

At last Annunciata dozed, and Hilda played softly. Played now, not for
her mother, but for herself. And as she played she dreamed: of Hedwig's
wedding, of her own debut, of Karl, who had fed her romantic heart by
treating her like a woman grown.

The Countess's opportunity had come. She put down the dreary embroidery
with which she filled the drearier evenings, and moved to the window.
She walked quietly, like a cat.

Her first words to Hedwig were those of Peter Niburg as he linked arms
with his enemy and started down the street. "A fine night, Highness,"
she said.

Hedwig raised her eyes to the stars. "It is very lovely."

"A night to spend out-of-doors, instead of being shut up--" She finished
her, sentence with a shrug of the shoulders.

Hedwig was not fond of the Countess. She did not know why. The
truth being, of course, that between them lay the barrier of her own
innocence. Hedwig could not have put this into words, would not, indeed,
if she could. But when the Countess's arm touched hers, she drew aside.

"To-night," said the lady in waiting dreamily, "I should like to be in
a motor, speeding over mountain roads. I come from the mountains, you
know. And I miss them."

Hedwig said nothing; she wished to be alone with her trouble.

"In my home, at this time of the year," the Countess went on, still
softly, "they are driving the cattle up into the mountains for
the summer. At night one hears them going--a bell far off, up the
mountainside, and sometimes one sees the light of a lantern."

Hedwig moved, a little impatiently, but as the Countess went on, she
listened. After all, Nikky, too, came from the mountains. She saw it
all--the great herds moving with deliberate eagerness already sniffing
the green slopes above, and the star of the distant lantern. She could
even hear the thin note of the bell. And because she was sorry for the
Countess, who was homesick, and perhaps because just then she had