"I feel deeply grateful for your kindness, mamma; but you know I could

not enter society, except under the auspices of my husband," replied

Berenice.

"You can enter society under the auspices of your husband's mother, the

very best chaperone you could possibly have," said the lady coldly.

"I know that, mamma."

"Then you will come with us?"

"Excuse me, madam; indeed I am not thankless of your thought of me. But

I cannot go; for even if I had the spirits to sustain the role of a

woman of fashion in the gay capital this winter, I feel that in doing so

I should still further displease and alienate my husband. No, I must

remain here in retirement, doing what good I can, and hoping and praying

for his return," sighed Berenice.

Mrs. Brudenell hastily rose from her seat. She was not accustomed to

opposition; she was too proud to plead further; and she was very much

displeased with Berenice for disappointing her cherished plan of

introducing her daughter, the Countess of Hurstmonceux, to the circles

of Washington.

"The first dinner bell has rung some time ago, my dear. I will not

detain you longer. Myself and daughters leave for town on Saturday."

Berenice bowed gently, and went upstairs to change her dress for dinner.

On Saturday, according to programme, Mrs. Brudenell and her daughters

went to town, traveling in their capacious family carriage, and Berenice

was left alone. Yes, she was left alone to a solitude of heart and home

difficult to be understood by beloved and happy wives and mothers. The

strange, wild country, the large, empty house, the grotesque black

servants, were enough in themselves to depress the spirits and sadden

the heart of the young English lady. Added to these were the deep wounds

her affections had received by the contemptuous desertion of her

husband; there was uncertainty of his fate, and keen anxiety for his

safety; and the slow, wasting soul-sickness of that fruitless hope which

is worse than despair.

Every morning, on rising from her restless bed, she would say to

herself: "Herman will return or I shall get a letter from him to-day."

Every night, on sinking upon her sleepless pillow, she would sigh: "Another dreary day has gone and no news of Herman!"

Thus in feverish expectation the days crept into weeks. And with the

extension of time hope grew more strained, tense, and painful.

On Monday morning she would murmur: "This week I shall surely hear from Herman, if I do not see him."




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