"No, oh, no. I came out to him with the idea of reforming him and making a home for him, but he would have none of me then. It was afterwards, when he knew he was ill of an incurable disease, that I came to him, and finally persuaded him to come away from the cities and live quietly in the country. It was strange that we should have pitched our quarters near the Count. I never knew that this was his part of the world or that he was over here. I heard it accidentally through the village girl who came to work for us." "And your brother knew that the child was alive?" "Yes. It appears that, when she was dying, Carlotta wrote to him; she taxed him with having made her leave her husband, and then deceived her. And she said in her letter: "'Not only did you make me lose a good husband, but also my child, for an old friend has taken him back to America and forgotten to give me her address. I am dying alone now, without a soul belonging to me near me.' "In justice to my brother she was not quite fair, for she began the correspondence. He wished to forget all about her." "It's a sad story," said Adrienne musingly. "Yes, but thanks to little Agatha, I was able to tell my poor brother when dying that there was a chance for him. And it was his own wish that the Count should come and see him and hear about his child. I had a bad quarter of an hour with the Count before he saw him. And yet, under his apparent hardness, I believe there's great feeling." "Oh, Bertha, what a life you have had!" exclaimed Adrienne. "How could you give up all your friends, because of your brother!" "He and I were chums as children," she said; "he wasted his life in riotous living like the prodigal, and yet in intervals produced such good work! His temptations were women, and—wine. After all, it was but natural that I should try to reclaim him. If I did not entirely succeed, his last year was one of respectability and peace." Then she said: "How do parent and child get on? It's rather hard for the Count to be saddled so suddenly with a small child." "I hope they'll get on," said Adrienne doubtfully; "but they're very shy of each other at present. He wants some woman to look after him, Bertha." "Yes, he will have to have a nurse or governess," said Bertha. "How does your aunt take it? She is too absorbed in her own troubles, I expect, to think about him." "Yes, she seems entirely indifferent to him. Sometimes I wonder if she can be the sister of my uncles. They are so utterly different—of course poor Uncle Tom has gone now, he always used to say that she was spoiled as a child. I can do nothing with her; no one could change her outlook, it would be a human impossibility!" "What does Agatha say?" "Oh, she says that nothing is impossible with God, and that I must pass on to her what I myself receive. But it's very, very difficult. She has given up all religion, except that she keeps a Bible on her dressing-table; but I've never seen her use it."