"Because I always hope that I may force you, out of consideration for me, to do what you will not do for yourself,--retire earlier and grant yourself the repose which is needful even for the strongest man,--how much more so for such a delicate creature as you are!" Ernestine languidly held out her hand. "You are kind and unselfish, my dear Willmers, but you cannot understand me. And, if you will insist upon sacrificing your night's rest to me, I must give you a room at a distance from mine, where you cannot hear what I am doing. Thank you for your care. Good-night." "Good-night," replied the housekeeper sadly, delaying her departure for a moment to draw the curtains closely around Ernestine's bed, that they might exclude the first golden rays of sunlight. That same night the countess spent tossing, like one scourged by the furies, upon her restless couch. She could hardly wait for the day that should take her to see her rival, and the same rising sun that filled Ernestine's sleep with friendly dreams,--for even in slumber the eye is conscious of light, and communicates it to the soul,--the same rising sun drove the tortured woman from her silken bed. She knew no weariness. Her healthy physical frame, hardened by exercise, withstood every attack of weakness. She owned no restraint, physically, morally, or mentally. She was talented, but she refused to think. Thought was in her view a fetter upon self-indulgence. Knowledge had limits which those who knew nothing were unconscious of. She would be free as the air, and therefore avoided everything that could disturb her superficial security. And she had sufficient intellect to feel that thought might lead to conclusions most dangerous to her theory of life.