Several of the matrons so addressed were seated within speaking range when Bertha came to her friend at the close of the dance, and she recognized at once on approaching them that she need fear them no longer. But she could not say much in response to their greetings; she answered them briefly, bowed slightly, and sat down in the chair near the woman who had protected her. She could even say but little to her; the color had died out of her face at last; the strain she had borne so long had reached its highest tension to-night, and the shock of the moment, received through an envious woman's trivial spite, slight as it might have been in itself, represented too much to her. As he had passed her in the dance and touched her hand, Tredennis had felt it as cold as ice, and the look of her quiet, white face had been almost more than he could bear to see. "Bertha," he had said to her once, "for God's sake, take courage!" But she had not answered him. A few months ago she would have given him a light, flippant reply, if her very soul had been wrung within her, but now she was past that. As she sat, afterwards, by the wife of the Secretary of State, her hand shook as she held her fan. "You were very kind to me just now," she said, in a low voice. "I cannot express my thanks as I wish." "My dear," was the reply, "do not speak of it. I came to take care of you. I think you will have no more trouble. But I am afraid this has been too much for you. You are shivering a little." "I am cold," Bertha answered. "I--feel as if--something strange had happened to me. It was not so before. I seem--to have lost courage." "But you must not lose courage yet," she said, with a manner at once soft and firm. "A great many people are looking at you. They will be very curious to know how you feel. It is best that you should not let them see." She spoke rather rapidly, but in a low voice. No one near could hear. She was smiling, as if the subject of the conversation was the least important in the world.