'Forgive me,' he said, after a pause. 'I did not intend any reproach to my father's memory. It assuredly was no fault of his if anything were wanting to your contentment.' 'Nothing was wanting,' exclaimed the Countess, with a rush of genuine feeling. 'Nothing, for I had you, my Edmund. You have been all in all to me; you have made up to me for everything. I have desired no other happiness since I have had my son's love. So far indeed'--here her voice sank--'so far his love has been mine alone; now I must share it with another, who henceforth will take the first place in his heart.' 'Mother!' broke in the young Count, half pleading, half reproachful. 'You will be to me still what you have ever been.' The Countess shook her head gently. 'I have, of course, long known that the time would come when the mother must make way for the wife; but now that it is here, it seems hard--so hard to bear, that I sometimes seriously think of leaving Ettersberg when you are married, and of going to live at Schönfeld, which you know was appointed me as a dower-house.' 'Never!' exclaimed Edmund, with vehemence. 'You cannot, will not, act so unkindly by me. You must not leave me, mother. You know that I cannot do without you, even though I have Hedwig. Much as I love her, she would not make up to me for all that I should lose in you.' The Countess heard these words with secret triumph. She knew that Edmund was sincere in his speech; the present moment convinced her of her power afresh. For his promised wife he had never anything but light talk and merry jests; Hedwig knew only the pleasant but superficial side of his character, which he showed to the world generally. All the deeper, intenser feelings of his nature belonged exclusively to his mother. As they flowed out towards her in all their warmth and fulness, she triumphantly recognised the fact that the first place in her son's heart was still hers. She had indeed known it, felt sure of it all along, and perhaps to this conviction Hedwig owed much of the friendly consideration which the Countess had always shown her. A bride more ardently, more passionately beloved would have found a redoubtable adversary in the jealous mother; this young girl, who neither gave nor required any great depth of affection, was endured because she did not endanger the maternal sway. 'Hush, hush! do not let anyone hear you,' said the Countess playfully, yet with a swift deep undercurrent of tenderness. 'It is not becoming in an engaged man, and the lord of many broad acres, to declare that he cannot do without his mother. Do you think, my dear, that it would be easy for me to leave you?' 'Do you think I would let you go? The mere formal recognition of my majority will not make a straw's difference in our position one towards the other.'