jects, while she pondered a means of pouring a
few last thoughts from her heart to mine.

"It is a long time since I have driven out," she said, looking at the
beauty of the evening. "Monsieur, will you please order the carriage
that I may take a turn?"

She knew that after evening prayer she could not speak with me, for the
count was sure to want his backgammon. She might have returned to the
warm and fragrant terrace after her husband had gone to bed, but she
feared, perhaps, to trust herself beneath those shadows, or to walk by
the balustrade where our eyes could see the course of the Indre through
the dear valley. As the silent and sombre vaults of a cathedral lift
the soul to prayer, so leafy ways, lighted by the moon, perfumed with
penetrating odors, alive with the murmuring noises of the spring-tide,
stir the fibres and weaken the resolves of those who love. The country
calms the old, but excites the young. We knew it well. Two strokes of
the bell announced the hour of prayer. The countess shivered.

"Dear Henriette, are you ill?"

"There is no Henriette," she said. "Do not bring her back. She was
capricious and exacting; now you have a friend whose courage has been
strengthened by the words which heaven itself dictated to you. We will
talk of this later. We must be punctual at prayers, for it is my day to
lead them."

As Madame de Mortsauf said the words in which she begged the help of God
through all the adversities of life, a tone came into her voice which
struck all present. Did she use her gift of second sight to foresee the
terrible emotion she was about to endure through my forgetfulness of an
engagement made with Arabella?

"We have time to make three kings before the horses are harnessed," said
the count, dragging me back to the salon. "You can go and drive with my
wife, and I'll go to bed."

The game was stormy, like all others. The countess heard the count's
voice either from her room or from Madeleine's.

"You show a strange hospitality," she said, re-entering the salon.

I looked at her with amazement; I could not get accustomed to the change
in her; formerly she would have been most careful not to protect
me against the count; then it gladdened her that I should share her
sufferings and bear them with patience for love of her.

"I would give my life," I whispered in her ear, "if I could hear you say
again, as you once said, 'Poor dear, poor dear!'"

She lowered her eyes, remembering the