he is good, too, and so
unhappy at times, it almost breaks my heart to look in her face."

"And you think I have made her so?"

"I think you might make her very happy, if you only would, grandmamma."

"Would that make you happy, little one?"

The old lady reached out her little, withered hand, and patted Clara's
fingers, as they paused in her work, while she spoke. The girl's face
brightened. She seized the little hand between her rosy palms, and
pressed it to her lips.

"Oh, grandmamma! can you mean it?"

"I always mean to be just, Clara."

"Then you will be very, very kind to her?"

"Does your father love this woman?"

"Love her? Oh, yes! but this thing has come a little between them. She
has grown shy of going out, while he must be in the world; and all her
life seems to vanish when he is away. Sometimes it makes my heart ache
to think how much she loves him."

"But he loves you?"

"Almost as much as mamma Rachael does. He was never cross to me but
once."

"And then?"

Clara turned pale, and took up her needle.

"I would rather not talk about that just now. You might be more angry
than my father was."

"It would be very difficult for me to get angry with you, little one."

"But you would, if I were to be very obstinate, and insist on having my
own way about--about something--that--that--"

The old lady's face grew very serious. She understood, these signs, and
they troubled her; but she was feeble, and shrank from any knowledge
that would bring excitement with it.

"Some day we will talk of all that," she said, with a little weary
closing of the eyes.

Clara drew a deep breath. See had been on the verge of making a
confidante of the old lady, and felt a sense of relief when the subject
was thus evaded.

The countess opened her eyes again.

"Clara," she said, "bring my writing-table here. We will not trouble
ourselves to ring for Judson."

Clara dropped her embroidery, and brought the sofa-table, with all its
exquisite appointments for writing. The old lady sat upright on her
couch, took the pen, and began to write on the creamy note-paper her
grandchild had placed before her. Clara watched that slender hand as it
glided across the paper, leaving delicate, upright letters perfect as an
engraving, as it moved. When the paper was covered, she folded the
missive with dainty precision, selected an envelope, on which her
coronet was entangled in a monogram, and was about to seal it with a
rin