“Is the countess feeling unwell?” inquired Ida. “Her ladyship only rang,” replied Bates, “to desire me to get ready to carry her letters to the post.” “I am going thither myself,” said Ida; “I will take my cousin’s notes; I think that you might be late.” “Thank you, miss,” replied the maid; “but my lady said expressly that I was to post the letters myself, and not let them out of my hand till I did so. Perhaps I might carry yours also, Miss Aumerle; I shall not be a minute in dressing.” Ida thanked the maid for the offer, and gave the note into her charge. But when Bates had hurried off to make her little preparations, Ida stood motionless in thought. Her heart misgave her as to the nature of the despatches which Annabella had evidently written with such nervous haste, and was about to send off with such anxious precaution. Why should the countess object to trust her letters to any one but her own menial servant? did she fear that the eye of a loving relative should chance to rest on the address? Was Annabella about to take some foolish step which should further alienate her from her husband? Ida remembered with pain the expression which she had last beheld on the countess’s face. “I had better go to her,—I may be in time to prevent some act which Annabella would hereafter bitterly regret.” This was Ida’s first thought, and under its impulse she almost laid her finger on the handle of her cousin’s door. But another feeling made her pause and draw back. Had she not already found her presence regarded as an unwelcome intrusion,—should she subject herself again to repulse? “Back! back!” whispered Pride, though so softly that his tones were not recognised; “force not your society on one who does not desire it, your counsel on her who despises it.” Ida hesitated—went away some few steps, and then returned to the door, as if attracted towards her unhappy cousin by some invisible spell. Again there was a moment’s reflection, again Pride recalled to her mind her late discourteous reception by the countess, and with a sigh of doubt and apprehension, Ida Aumerle returned to her own room. In the meantime Annabella with a trembling hand had sealed up two large envelopes. The one contained “The Precipice and the Peer,” hastily but vigorously written, and was directed to the editor of the magazine in which the countess had, as before mentioned, occasionally written. The other letter was addressed to her publisher in London, giving him her free permission not only to complete the printing of her romance, but to put the authoress’s name on the title-page, not as “Egeria,” but “the Countess of Dashleigh.”