She sat down as this thought presented itself to her, and looked at herself in the great mirrors that repeated her supple figure over and over again. She sat and looked at herself, and Phœbe, knowing her secret, crept near her and laid her head upon her shoulders. “Duty in the future,” said Phœbe softly; “your noble husband’s love and generosity will make you love him in the end I am sure, as he deserves to be loved; the path of duty lies before you and cannot be mistaken.” “He has long since won my respect, Phœbe, and my gratitude; he loves me with a good man’s truthfulness and sincerity, and I will love him; you know how I have struggled, you know what I have suffered: let us both blot all that part out now and for ever, Phœbe, and as you love me pray that I may be sustained in the wifely path of duty and obedience.” The Countess spoke like her former self in those past days before that cloud of sorrow fell upon Barton Hall; in those past days when she was the bailiff’s daughter and the sisterly companion of her whom she had since supplanted in fortune and position. The tears came into Phœbe’s eyes again, and the two women embraced each other tenderly. “Bless you, my own dear friend,” said the Countess, “believe me, I will make reparation for all my unkindness to you. There dear, do not reply--kiss me again and leave me--it is better I should be alone a little while.” Alone, the Countess fell upon her knees, and prayed with passionate fervency--prayed as she had not prayed since that change came over her on that never-to-be-forgotten day when she learnt of _his_ departure--prayed as she had not prayed since that scheme of ambition leaped into her mind at the appearance of that carriage with the coronet on the panel. She rose with a calm expression upon her face, refreshed by the outpouring of her supplications, and determined to do her duty in the high station to which she had risen, and towards her husband. Unlocking a small dressing-case which stood near his lordship’s latest present, she took out an inner drawer which was curiously concealed. Her hand trembled slightly as she withdrew the contents--a letter. It was _his_ letter (if it might be called a letter)--the only memento of him which she possessed except in memory. There were only three lines upon it, and these were written on the day following that day when they had walked together in Barton Hall gardens. “Dearest--I shall be at Barton Hall at four o’clock to-morrow. Do not let me go away without seeing you. L. H.” This was all the note contained. For long days and weeks and months afterwards she had treasured up that poor little scrap of paper--worn it in her bosom, wept over it, kissed it, and cherished the memory of that hour of happiness which followed it.