"That he was hurt, but not seriously."

"Oh;--he said that."

"I fear he is hurt seriously."

"But he said that he was not?"

"Yes;--and that the less said the sooner mended."

"Did he say that too?"

"That was his message."

The Countess gave a long sigh, then sobbed, and at last broke out
into hysteric tears. It was evident to her now that the man was
sparing her,--was endeavouring to spare her. He had told no one as
yet. "The least said the soonest mended." Oh yes;--if he would say
never a word to any one of what had occurred between them that day,
that would be best for her. But how could he not tell? When some
doctor should ask him how he had come by that wound, surely he would
tell then! It could not be possible that such a deed should have been
done there, in that little room, and that no one should know it! And
why should he not tell,--he who was her enemy? Had she caught him at
advantage, would she not have smote him, hip and thigh? And then she
reflected what it would be to owe perhaps her life to the mercy of
Daniel Thwaite,--to the mercy of her enemy, of him who knew,--if no
one else should know,--that she had attempted to murder him. It would
be better for her, should she be spared to do so, to go away to some
distant land, where she might hide her head for ever.

"May I go to him, mamma, to see him?" Lady Anna asked. The Countess,
full of her own thoughts, sat silent, answering not a word. "I know
where he lives, mamma, and I fear that he is much hurt."

"He will not--die," muttered the Countess.

"God forbid that he should die;--but I will go to him." Then she
returned up-stairs without a word of opposition from her mother, put
on her bonnet, and sallied forth. No one stopped her or said a word
to her now, and she seemed to herself to be as free as air. She
walked up to the corner of Gower Street, and turned down into Bedford
Square, passing the house of the Serjeant. Then she asked her way
into Great Russell Street, which she found to be hardly more than a
stone's throw from the Serjeant's door, and soon found the number at
which her lover lived. No;--Mr. Thwaite was not at home. Yes;--she
might wait for him;--but he had no room but his bedroom. Then she
became very bold. "I am engaged to be his wife," she said. "Are
you the Lady Anna?" asked the woman, who had heard the story. Then
she was received with great distinction, and invited to sit down
in a parlour on the ground-floor. There sh