On Wednesday morning Claudia, as usual, seized the "Times" as soon as it was brought in, and turned eagerly to the telegraphic column. But there was no arrival from America. Glancing farther down the column, she suddenly grew pale and exclaimed: "Oh, Berenice!" "What is it, dear?" inquired the countess. Claudia read aloud the paragraph that had alarmed her: "The 'Oceana' is now several days overdue. Serious apprehensions are entertained for her safety." "Do not be alarmed, my dear. At this season of the year the steamers are frequently delayed beyond their usual time of arrival," said the countess, with a cheerfulness that she was very far from really feeling. "But if there should have been an accident!" "My dear, that line of steamers has never had an accident. And their good fortune is not the effect of luck, but of the great care bestowed by the company and its officers upon the safety of those who trust to them their lives and goods. Reassure yourself, Claudia." But that was easier said than done. Three or four more of anxious days and nights passed, during which Claudia watched the papers for the arrival of the ocean steamers; but all in vain, until the Saturday morning of that week, when, as usual, she opened the "Times" and turned to the telegraphic column. She could scarcely repress the cry of anguish that arose to her lips on reading the following: "Arrival of the ocean steamers. The screw propeller 'Superior,' with New York mails of the 15th, has reached Queenstown. On the Banks of Newfoundland she passed the wreck of a large steamer, supposed to be the 'Oceana.'" "Oh, Berenice! Oh, Berenice! Can this be true? Oh! Speak a word of hope or comfort to me!" cried Claudia, wringing her hands in the extremity of mental agony. "My dear, let us still hope for the best. There is no certainty that it is the wreck of the 'Oceana.' There is no certainty that the 'Oceana' is wrecked at all. She is delayed; that is all which is known. And that is often the case with the ocean steamers at this season of the year, as I told you before," said the countess, trying to inspire Claudia with a hope that she herself scarcely dared to indulge. But Claudia's face was drawn with anguish. "Oh, the suspense, the terrible agony of suspense! It is worse than death!" she cried. The countess essayed to comfort her, but in vain. All that day, and for many succeeding ones, Claudia was like a victim stretched upon the rack. The torture of uncertainty was harder to endure than any certainty; it was, as she said, "worse than death," worse than despair! Some two weeks passed away, during which her very breath of life seemed almost suspended in the agony of hope that could not die. At length one morning, on descending to the breakfast parlor, she found Lady Hurstmonceux reading the "Times." "Any news?" inquired Claudia, in a faint voice. The countess looked up. Claudia read the expression of her face, which seemed to say, prepare for good news.