any time was a most unusual thing; but
for one to come after dark was a thing unheard of. At once there came
to Hilda a thought like lightning as to who it might be that thus
drove up; the thought was momentous and overwhelming; it might have
been sufficient to have destroyed all courage and all presence of
mind had her nerves been, by the slightest degree, less strong. But
as it was, her nerve sustained her, and her courage did not falter
for one single instant. With a calm face and firm step she advanced
to the window. With a steady hand she drew the curtains aside and
looked out. Little could lie seen amidst the gloom at first; but at
length, as she gazed, she was able to distinguish the dim outline of
a carriage, as it emerged from the shadows of the avenue and drove up
to the chief door.

Then she stepped back toward the door of her boudoir, and listened,
but nothing could be heard. She then lighted two lamps, and, turning
to a cheval-glass at one end of her room, she put one lamp on each
side, so that the light might strike on her to the best advantage,
and then scrutinized herself with a steady and critical glance. Thus
she stood for a long time, watchful and motionless, actuated by a
motive far different from any thing like vanity; and if she received
gratification from a survey of herself, it was any thing but
gratified pride. It was a deeper motive than girlish curiosity that
inspired such stern self-inspection; and it-was a stronger feeling
than vanity that resulted from it. It was something more than things
like these which made her, at so dread a moment, look so anxiously at
her image in the glass.

As she stood there a tap came at the door.

"Come in," said Hilda, in her usual calm tone, turning as she spoke
to face the door.

It was the maid.

"My lady," said she, "his lordship has just arrived."

To her, at that moment, such intelligence could have been nothing
less than tremendous. It told her that the crisis of her life had
come; and to meet it was inevitable, whatever the result might be. He
had come. He, the one whom she must face; not the crude boy, but the
man, tried in battle and in danger and in judgment, in the camp and
in the court; the man who she now knew well was not surpassed by many
men among that haughty race to which he belonged. This man was
accustomed to face guilt and fear; he had learned to read the soul;
he had become familiar with all that the face may make known of the
s