It was a change indeed! Life all at once became solemn and full of mystery to her—full of trouble, too, and perplexity. So soon as a messenger had been despatched to Donaueschingen, for a surgeon who was skilled in the extraction of buck-shot, Annie Brunel went up to her own room, and sat down there alone. And she felt as if the air had grown thick around her, and was pressing on her; she felt that the old audacious cheerfulness had gone from her; and that the passion, and glow, and terrible earnestness of her stage-life were invading this other life, which used to be full of a frivolous, careless happiness. Do the other animals become frightened and nervous when the love-making season comes suddenly upon them? Does the lark, when her lover comes down from the sky and sings, "My dear soft-breasted little thing, will you be my wife; will you come and build a nest with me, and let me bring you scraps of food when you are tired?"—does she get into a state of great tremor, and fancy that the world has suddenly shifted its axis? We know how the least impressionable of men are overawed by this strange natural phenomenon. The old ridiculousness of love—its silliness and comic aspects—are immediately blotted out from their mind by the contemplation of the awful truth—the awful change that lies before them. They shrink from physiology as a species of blasphemy. They will not accept scientific explanation of their idealisms; nor will they believe that any man has ever experienced the sensation they now experience. But the ordinary awakening of a man or woman to the consciousness of being in love was a very different thing from the sudden revelation which confronted the young actress, as she sat there and pondered, in a bewildered way, over the events of the past hour. To love this man was a crime—and its fatal consequences seemed to stretch on and on, and interweave themselves with her whole future life. How had she fallen into the snare? And he was equally guilty; for his eyes, more fully than his words, had in that supreme moment told her his tragic story. She thought of the violet-eyed Dove down in that Kentish vale. She thought of her, and mentally prayed for forgiveness. She had but one sad consolation in the matter—her secret was her own. There now remained for her but to leave Schönstein at once, and the morning’s events had paved the way for her decision. So she sent for Mrs. Christmas, and said to her— "Don’t you think a cooler air than what we have here would suit you better?" The old woman scrutinized her face curiously. "What’s the matter with you, Miss Annie? You look as if you had just come off the stage, and were half-bewildered by the part you had been playing!"