"I know not, my good lord," replied the girl, apparently embarrassed by a certain degree of sternness in his tone. "I believe my lady sleeps; I heard her say she had rested ill last night." "Go call her," said the Count. "Sleeps at midday! she must be ill. We must have some physician." The maid did not venture to reply, but went in at once to the lady's chamber; and the moment after Adelaide herself came forth. Her fair face was as pale as death, but yet her air was firm, and she seemed to the eye but little agitated. Her step was slow, however, and showed none of the buoyant joys with which, in former times, she sprang to meet her father. "How now, my child?" said the Count, as soon as he saw her; "what! sleeping at this time of day? You must be ill, Adelaide." "I slept not, father," she answered at once; "I never sleep by day." "Then why came you not, as usual, to meet me?" asked the Count. "In what important task have you been busy that you could not give a moment to greet your father on his return from strife?" "In prayer," she answered, simply. "In prayer!" he repeated;--"why in prayer at this hour to-day?" "At this hour and day in every year I am in prayer," she answered; "for it is the hour and day my mother left me." A deep shade fell upon her father's face: "True--I forgot," he said; "the busy occupation of the last few hours has driven from my mind things I am wont to remember: but now sit down beside me, my dear child. This foolish girl, Theresa, says you rested ill." "She says true," answered Adelaide, taking the place to which her father pointed; "I slept but little." "And where did you ramble in your waking thoughts?" asked the Count. "Far and wide," was her reply; but as she answered, she bent down her head, the colour rose into her cheek, and there was a confession in her whole air which made her father's heart beat quick and fiercely. Nearly in vain he strove to master himself, and in a hurried, yet bitter tone, he said: "Perchance, as far as the chapel in the wood." His daughter remained silent. "And not without a companion," he added. "Base, wretched girl, what have you done? Is this your maiden modesty?--is this your purity and innocence of heart?--are these the lessons that your mother taught you?" Suddenly Adelaide raised her head, and though with a crimson cheek and brow, she answered, "Yes! Nothing, my lord,--neither deep, true love, nor human persuasion, nor girl-like folly, nor one idle dream of fancy--would have made me do what I have done, had I not been sure that duty--ay, duty even to you, required me to forget all other things, the fears of my weak nature, the habits of my station, all the regards of which I have been ever careful,--my very name and fame, if it must be so, and do as I have done."