"I said neither yes nor no. At the moment I did not know what to think. I—I knew that he would be kind to me, and that—he knew—that I liked him pretty well—as an acquaintance——" "And you have not decided whether you ought to make the Count happy or no?" The false cheerfulness of his voice did not deceive her. "Yes, I have decided," she said, in a low voice. "And you will——?" "Why not be frank with me?" she said, passionately, and turning to him with imploring eyes. "Why speak like that?—would you not despise me if I married that man?—would I not despise myself? You see I talk to you frankly, for you are my friend: I could not marry him—I dare not think of my being his _wife_. I shall never be his wife—I shall never be any man’s wife." "Annie, be reasonable——" "Perhaps it is not to you I should say that, and yet I know it. I am ashamed of myself when I think that I let him go away with the thought that I _might_ accept his offer. But then I had not decided—I did not see it properly, not until I looked in your face to-night." "It seems that I must always come between you and happiness." "Do you call that happiness? But I must go back, now; poor Lady Jane is rather worse to-day, and I was at the chemist’s, with a prescription from the doctor, when I met you. I hope we have not done wrong in speaking to each other." So they went back, and he bade her farewell tenderly, and yet not so sadly as at their former parting. It seemed to him, as he passed away from the door, that he heard a faint sharp cry from inside the house. He took no notice of it, however. He was already some distance off when he heard swift footsteps behind him, and then the maidservant of the house, breathless and wild-eyed, caught him by the arm. "Oh, sir, please come back; Mrs. Christmas is dead, sir! and the young missis is in such a dreadful state!" He at once hurried back, and found that the terrible intelligence was too true. Annie Brunel seemed almost to have lost her senses,—so bitterly did she reproach herself for having neglected the bedside of her old friend. "She was well enough, ma’am, when you went out," the servant maintained, consoling her mistress, "and there was nothing you could have done. I was in the room, and she asked for those letters as always lies in that drawer, ma’am; and when I took them over to her, she tried to put up her hand, and then she sank back, and in a minute it was all over. What could you have done, ma’am? She couldn’t ha’ spoken a word to you." But the girl was inconsolable, and it was past midnight when Will left her, having wholly failed in his efforts to soothe the bitterness of her grief and desolation. CHAPTER XXX. THE COUNT HESITATES.