She believed that God had heeded her prayer, nay, she even believed, in her boundless affection for her child, that God had wrought a miracle in her behalf! She forgot that the great mysterious Power that shapes our destinies never transgresses the laws that it has made, and that the consequences of our guilt inexorably pursue their way, until their natural expiation is fulfilled. In this case that expiation took a shape far different from any that a mother's tender heart could have devised. The clock had struck eleven. Her anxiety increased although she could not have defined her dread. Her windows were open, she listened;--at last there was the sound of hoofs, the jingle of a bit and bridle. She breathed a sigh of relief. A few moments elapsed, and then a weary, lagging step came along the corridor to her door;--why did that step instantly reveal to her that the decisive moment had come? There was a knock at her door,--Oswald entered. "Forgive me for disturbing you so late, mamma," he said in a tone lacking all animation, "I saw your light from below...." "Late?--it is hardly eleven o'clock; you know that you never disturb me, dear child. Since when have you learned to knock at my door? The next thing you will send in your name." The forced gayety of her tone did not escape him. "Oh, I did not know--I--" he murmured vaguely, dropping, without kissing, the hand which she extended to him; then he took a seat near her, but outside of the little oasis of light shed by the lamp on the table beside the Countess. "You came home by the way of Rautschin?" "Yes." "Are they all well there?" "I do not know; I did not go in, it was too late." "And Fritz? How is the poor fellow?" "Very ill!" "Did you give him my message?" "Yes, he sends you his thanks." Oswald seemed metamorphosed. Never before had he answered her so curtly; she glanced at him anxiously, he was sitting leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head resting on his hand like one longing to carry out a terrible resolve. A distressing silence ensues. He feels as if he were about to ask of a competent authority whether or not there be a God. He cannot bring himself to do it, and then too how shall he shape the fearful question?--how can he utter anything so vile in her presence?--he who all his lifelong would rather have blasphemed in a church than have spoken an evil syllable before his mother! The minutes pass; tick, tick, goes the antique watch with the silver face on the Countess's writing-table. He clears his throat. "Mother!" he begins. She interrupts him. "I feel very ill, Ossi!" she says, rising with difficulty from her arm-chair, "give me your arm, I should like to go to bed." But he gently urges her back in her chair again. "Only a moment, mother; I have something to say to you,--I cannot spare you!" "Well--say it then!" She sits erect, deadly pale, clutching the arms of her chair; he stands before her, one hand resting on the table, his eyes cast down.