That day and night were very dreadful to her. She never asked a question about her daughter. They had brought her food to her in that lonely parlour, and she hardly heeded them as they laid the things before her, and then removed them. Again and again did she unlock the old desk, and see that the weapon was ready to her hand. Then she opened that letter to Sir William Patterson, and added a postscript to it. "What I have since done will explain everything." That was all she added, and on the following morning, about noon, she put the letter on the mantelshelf. Late at night she took herself to bed, and was surprised to find that she slept. The key of the old desk was under her pillow, and she placed her hand on it the moment that she awoke. On leaving her own room she stood for a moment at her daughter's door. It might be, if she killed the man, that she would never see her child again. At that moment she was tempted to rush into her daughter's room, to throw herself upon her daughter's bed, and once again to beg for mercy and grace. She listened, and she knew that her daughter slept. Then she went silently down to the dark room and the old desk. Of what use would it be to abase herself? Her daughter was the only thing that she could love; but her daughter's heart was filled with the image of that low-born artisan. "Is Lady Anna up?" she asked the maid about ten o'clock. "Yes, my lady; she is breakfasting now." "Tell her that when--when Mr. Thwaite comes, I will send for her as soon as I wish to see her." "I think Lady Anna understands that already, my lady." "Tell her what I say." "Yes, my lady. I will, my lady." Then the Countess spoke no further word till, punctually at one o'clock, Daniel Thwaite was shown into the room. "You keep your time, Mr. Thwaite," she said. "Working men should always do that, Lady Lovel," he replied, as though anxious to irritate her by reminding her how humble was the man who could aspire to be the son-in-law of a Countess. "All men should do so, I presume. I also am punctual. Well sir;--have you anything else to say?" "Much to say,--to your daughter, Lady Lovel." "I do not know that you will ever see my daughter again." "Do you mean to say that she has been taken away from this?" The Countess was silent, but moved away from the spot on which she stood to receive him towards the old desk, which stood open,--with the door of the centre space just ajar. "If it be so, you have deceived me most grossly, Lady Lovel. But it can avail you nothing, for I know that she will be true to me. Do you tell me that she has been removed?" "I have told you no such thing." "Bid her come then,--as you promised me." "I have a word to say to you first. What if she should refuse to come?" "I do not believe that she will refuse. You yourself heard what she said yesterday. All earth and all heaven should not make me doubt her, and certainly not your word, Lady Lovel. You know how it is, and you know how it must be."