"And I make so bold, my lady, as to say that he ought not to come here. There has been a doing of some kind, but I don't know what. He says as how he's been hurt, and I'm sure I don't know how he should be hurt here,--unless he brought it with him. I never had nothing of the kind here before, long as I've been here. Of course your title and that is all right, my lady; but the young man isn't fit;--that's the truth of it. My belief is he'd been a drinking; and I won't have it in my house." Lady Anna passed by her without a word and went into her mother's room. The Countess was still seated in her chair, and neither rose nor spoke when her daughter entered. "Mamma, Mr. Thwaite is hurt." "Well;--what of it? Is it much that ails him?" "He is in pain. What has been done, mamma?" The Countess looked at her, striving to learn from the girl's face and manner what had been told and what concealed. "Did you--strike him?" "Has he said that I struck him?" "No, mamma;--but something has been done that should not have been done. I know it. He has sent you a message, mamma." "What was it?" asked the Countess, in a hoarse voice. "That he was hurt, but not seriously." "Oh;--he said that." "I fear he is hurt seriously." "But he said that he was not?" "Yes;--and that the less said the sooner mended." "Did he say that too?" "That was his message." The Countess gave a long sigh, then sobbed, and at last broke out into hysteric tears. It was evident to her now that the man was sparing her,--was endeavouring to spare her. He had told no one as yet. "The least said the soonest mended." Oh yes;--if he would say never a word to any one of what had occurred between them that day, that would be best for her. But how could he not tell? When some doctor should ask him how he had come by that wound, surely he would tell then! It could not be possible that such a deed should have been done there, in that little room, and that no one should know it! And why should he not tell,--he who was her enemy? Had she caught him at advantage, would she not have smote him, hip and thigh? And then she reflected what it would be to owe perhaps her life to the mercy of Daniel Thwaite,--to the mercy of her enemy, of him who knew,--if no one else should know,--that she had attempted to murder him. It would be better for her, should she be spared to do so, to go away to some distant land, where she might hide her head for ever. "May I go to him, mamma, to see him?" Lady Anna asked. The Countess, full of her own thoughts, sat silent, answering not a word. "I know where he lives, mamma, and I fear that he is much hurt." "He will not--die," muttered the Countess.