On seeing the visitor who accompanied her son, Mrs. Brudenell arose with a look of haughty surprise. "You wished to see Hannah Worth, I believe, mother, and here she is," said Herman. "My housekeeper did. Touch the bell, if you please, Herman." Mr. Brudenell did as requested, and the summons was answered by Jovial. "Take this woman to Mrs. Spicer, and say that she has come about the weaving. When she leaves show her where the servants' door is, so that she may know where to find it when she comes again," said Mrs. Brudenell haughtily. As soon as Hannah had left the room Herman said: "Mother, you need not have hurt that poor girl's feelings by speaking so before her." "She need not have exposed herself to rebuke by entering where she did." "Mother, she entered with me. I brought her in." "Then you were very wrong. These people, like all of their class, require to be kept down--repressed." "Mother, this is a republic!" "Yes; and it is ten times more necessary to keep the lower orders down, in a republic like this, where they are always trying to rise, than it is in a monarchy, where they always keep their place," said the lady arrogantly. "What have you there?" inquired Herman, with a view of changing the disagreeable subject. "The English papers. The foreign mail is in. And, by the way, here is a letter for you." Herman received the letter from her hand, changed color as he looked at the writing on the envelope, and walked away to the front window to read it alone. His mother's watchful eyes followed him. As he read, his face flushed and paled; his eyes flashed and smoldered; sighs and moans escaped his lips. At length, softly crumpling up the letter, he thrust it into his pocket, and was stealing from the room to conceal his agitation, when his mother, who had seen it all, spoke: "Any bad news, Herman?" "No, madam," he promptly answered. "What is the matter, then?" He hesitated, and answered: "Nothing." "Who is that letter from?" "A correspondent," he replied, escaping from the room. "Humph! I might have surmised that much," laughed the lady, with angry scorn. But he was out of hearing. "Did you notice the handwriting on the envelope of that letter, Elizabeth?" she inquired of her elder daughter. "Which letter, mamma?" "That one for your brother, of course." "No, mamma, I did not look at it." "You never look at anything but your stupid worsted work. You will be an old maid, Elizabeth. Did you notice it, Elinor?" "Yes, mamma. The superscription was in a very delicate feminine handwriting; and the seal was a wounded falcon, drawing the arrow from its own breast--surmounted by an earl's coronet." "'Tis the seal of the Countess of Hurstmonceux." CHAPTER IV. THE FATAL DEED.