It was the 22nd of December. Falkenberg had been absent for five days, and it was now that doubts and fears began to distress Sara’s soul. For the last few days she had been reflecting, deeply and uneasily, as Ellen saw, watching the face she loved. She dreaded the result of those meditations. Falkenberg’s cause was her cause, and she wished he would return. But this afternoon she had a duty to perform, and, seeing Sara sitting lost in thought, and that thought apparently of no pleasant nature, she said: ‘You look a deal better, ma’am, this afternoon. Do you think you would be equal to looking at the letters that have come for you while you were ill?’ ‘Letters! Are there any letters for me?’ she demanded eagerly, her whole aspect changing. ‘Bring them at once. Why did you not tell me before?’ ‘The doctor said you had better not have them, and Herr Falkenberg said I was on no account to give you them till you were stronger,’ said Ellen, unlocking a drawer, and taking them out. Her back was turned to Sara, or she might have seen the sudden start of the latter at this decided mention of Falkenberg’s name, and this close connection of him and his orders with her and her affairs. Her colour changed, and she bit her lip. But she did not speak as Ellen put the letters into her hand. Her cheek flushed as she turned them over. There was one with the postmark Nassau upon it, and a countess’s coronet on the flap. That was from Frau von Trockenau. And there was one directed in Avice Wellfield’s hand. Her face changed as she looked at them, and observed the dates on the postmarks. They had both been written lately–the countess’s since her marriage, for it was addressed–Sara turned hot and cold and trembled as she saw the superscription–to Frau Rudolf Falkenberg. She opened this letter first, and read it: ‘DEAREST SARA,