Whilst the young baron sat awaiting his happiness, Clara had gone to her own apartment. It was a square room, with a large window, decorated with grey silk. Before the window stood a writing table, and near it a high pyramidal stand of blooming flowers, whose fragrance filled the room. Upon the writing-table, on an elegant bronze easel, stood a large photograph of her fiancé; he had given it to her just before his departure to join the army. In a niche in one corner of the room was a _prie-dieu_ chair, and a beautiful crucifix in ebony and ivory, with a small shell, containing holy water, hung upon the wall. This room contained everything calculated to please a faultless taste, and to enrich and embellish life. This room had been so full of happiness and hope when the young countess left it,--and now? The perfume of the flowers was as sweet as an hour ago; the sunshine fell as brightly through the windows; but where was the happiness? where was the hope? Clara threw herself on her knees before the image of the crucified Saviour, where she had often found comfort in the childish sorrows of her early life. She clasped her beautiful hands in fervent prayer, her tearful eyes hung on the image of the Redeemer, her lips moved in half-uttered, imploring words; but not as before did peace and rest sink into her soul. A wild storm of various emotions raged within her. There was deep sorrow for her lost happiness, there was defiant anger at the deceit that had played upon her love, there was swelling pride at the contempt shown to her feelings, and finally there was bitter, jealous hatred of the unworthy being to whom she had been sacrificed. All these emotions surged and raged in her head, in her heart, in her veins; and the prayer her lips pronounced would not arise to heaven, the peaceful light of believing self-sacrifice would not kindle within her. She stood up and sighed deeply. Not grief, but anger flashed in her eyes. Her white teeth bit into her lip, she paced up and down the room, her hands pressed upon her bosom, as if to still the raging storm threatening to break her heart. Then she stood still before her writing-table, and looked angrily at von Stielow's portrait. "Why did you come into my life," she cried, "to rob me of my peace, and to make me purchase a few hours' happiness with such frightful tortures?" Her looks rested long on the portrait. Slowly and gradually the angry expression passed from her features; a mild, sorrowful light shone in her eyes. "And my short happiness was so fair," she whispered. "Is it then possible that those true eyes could lie? Is it possible that at the very time---" She sank into a chair near her table, and half involuntarily following the sweet habit of the last short time, she opened an ebony casket, enriched with mother-o'-pearl and gold.