Honoria went back and cast a wondering glance on the pile of torn letters. There was insanity in my lady's family, and Honoria remembered it--recalled violent scenes between father and daughter--threats of Bedlam. The maid was convinced that the scene of yesterday had upset her mistress's brain. What was it but an act of madness, this wild attempt to cause my lord's death, this lonely adventure? And then this return to a desperate sorting and tearing up of old worthless letters? She drew the rich heavy curtains back and let in the early sunlight, that shone gaily over the elegant, extravagant appointments of the chamber. When the chocolate was ready, frothed and milled, she poured out a cup and took it in to my lady. The Countess sat where she had left her. The vivid colour of her wrap accentuated the curious pallor of her face; her tangled hair fell on her shoulders and her head was leaning back. "Madam," said Honoria sharply, "you are indeed ill, and I shall send for the apothecary." "No," replied my lady languidly. "Come here." The maid placed the cup on a side table covered with pots of pomade and bottles of Hungary water. "Come here," repeated the Countess, and held out her hand. Honoria caught the cold fingers. "What is the matter?" she demanded anxiously. The Countess slowly raised her handkerchief with her free hand and wiped her lips. "You must tell them," she murmured. "I leave it very incomplete. I--yesterday I felt a fear of sudden death." "God help us! Ye are not dying?" cried Honoria. My lady shuddered, and closed her eyes. The maid caught her by the shoulder almost roughly. "What is the matter? Are you dying?" "I am not afraid," muttered the Countess without opening her eyes, "now--but tell the Earl." "I will fetch him!" exclaimed Honoria. The Countess made no answer but a faint moan, and as she stared at her Honoria saw the truth. "You have taken poison," she said. There was no answer from my lady. Her eyes fluttered open and stared blankly before her. "So this is the turn it has taken!" said Honoria, very pale. "You are a fool, madam, and a wicked fool. I will go fetch a doctor." "No, no!" wailed the Countess. "Do not leave me, I am dying." But Honoria Pryse ran out of the room. At that the Countess dragged herself into a sitting posture and gazed about her. The shrouded windows, the close light, the unmade bed, the untidy chamber, the profusion of useless, extravagant things scattered about, formed a dreary picture. There was luxury but no comfort; to my lady's hazing eyes it appeared a cheerless place. The little dog awoke, roused himself, jumped off the bed and came round to his mistress. She held out a shaking hand to him, and he leapt on to her lap.