She wrote in a fit of resentment, and what she penned naturally took the colour of her feelings. The countess wrote a ludicrous account of a little adventure which had occurred to the Earl of ——, the dash serving as a transparent veil which every one could see through. She recounted how the earl, accompanied by his wife, who was fired with the ambition of emulating the feats which Albert Smith has rendered famous, ascended part of the way up a Swiss mountain. She described how, long ere the snowy region was reached, the nobleman had been seized with giddiness and nervous fear; how he had stood on a steep slope, with a precipice on either hand, clutching tremblingly at the rock-plants which gave way in his grasp, calling out in alarm for aid, and thankful at last to catch hold of the end of a boa which his more active and fearless partner extended from the summit of a cliff. It was a relief to Annabella to give vent to her anger and malice in this little, humorous sketch. She wrote without any deliberate intention of ever showing it to a human eye; her paper took to her the place of a female confidante, that too often mischievous companion to a woman who is not happily married. Having finished her little piece the countess descended to the drawing-room, to pass a sullen, uncomfortable evening in the society of her aristocratic husband. CHAPTER X. ON THE WATCH. “Struggling in the world’s dark strife, Man requires, ere parting thence, Pardon for the holiest life, For the purest—penitence. Helpless all—a Power above Saving strength alone can give, Sinners all,—a God of love Only bids the guilty live! From polluted works we flee, Lord, to hide ourselves in Thee!” It was a sunny afternoon in April. In a rustic arbour at the end of the garden, garlanded with honeysuckle and clematis, through the interstices of whose bright, young leaves came the smiling sunshine, and the soft breath of Spring, sat Ida and Mabel Aumerle. This arbour was a favourite retreat of the girls; thither they carried their books and their work; and could the clustering shrubs around it have had a voice, much could they have told of sweet converse held together by the sisters, and that free interchange of thought which is one of the dearest privileges of friendship. “Ida, dearest,” said Mabel, “shall I tell you what Uncle Augustine said of you to-day when you left the room after prayers? He said, ‘Ida is a noble girl, and has no fault except that of being too good.’ Papa smiled and shook his head gently; Mrs. Aumerle gave her odious, little shrug!” “Uncle Augustine does not know my heart,” said Ida. “But I know it if any one does, and I am sure that uncle himself cannot think more highly of you than I do.” “You are partial,” replied her sister with a smile.