The Count did not enjoy his dinner that evening. He fancied there was something wrong in the arrangement of things—something incomprehensible, provoking, beyond the reach of his alteration. When he persuaded Annie Brunel and her guardian to accept his escort as far as Schönstein, he fancied his skilful calculations had delivered her into his hand. Was there a creature on earth—especially a woman—who could fail to be smitten with a covetous desire for the possession of Schönstein? During that moody meal, while he sate almost angrily silent, two suggestions occurred to him. Could she have failed to perceive that she might be mistress of Schönstein if she liked? The Count confessed that he had not made any demonstration of affection to her, simply because he wished the natural effect of living at Schönstein to influence her first, and predispose her towards accepting his more openly-avowed attentions. Or was it possible that she had discovered her true position, and learned for herself the wealth and rank to which she was entitled? But if she had made this discovery, he argued with himself, she would not have allowed herself to be the guest of a parvenu Count; while he knew that she had received no letters since his arrival. Seizing the more probable alternative, he bitterly regretted his not having made it more clear to her that a handsome fortune awaited her acceptance. In the meantime these regrets had the effect of making the dinner a somewhat dull affair; and it was rather gruffly that he consented, after dinner, to go round to the inn in order to inquire of Hans Halm the various routes to Switzerland. As they were going out, she said— "Will you send word to Mr. Anerley that we shall only be absent for a short time, and that I hope he may be able to come down and see us when we return?" "The surgeon is still with him," said the Count. "I shall go up and see him myself when we come back." It was a clear starlight night; the waning moon had not yet risen. As they neared the few houses of Schönstein, and saw the orange lights gleaming through the dusk, Mrs. Christmas caught her companion’s arm. They were by the side of the garden adjoining the inn, and from a summer-house which was half hid among apple and plum trees, there came the sweet and tender singing of two young girls—a clear and high but somewhat undeveloped soprano, and a rich, full, mellow contralto. The three stood for a moment to listen, and the singers in the darkness proceeded to another song—the old _Volksweise_ that Grete and Hermann had been wont to sing: "Im sohönsten Wiesen-grunde Ist meiner Heimath Haus, Da zog ich manche Stunde, In’s Thal hinaus: Dich, mein stilles Thal, grüss ich tausend Mal! Da zog ich manche Stunde, in’s Thal hinaus." "It is Grete who sings, and I want to see her," said Annie Brunel, stepping softly into the garden, and advancing to the summer-house.