Countess, his first wife was
still living, though they gave no credit to the woman who now
called herself the Countess. But, in either case,--whether the
Italian countess were now alive or now dead,--the daughter would be
illegitimate, and the second marriage void, if their surmise on this
head should prove to be well founded. But the Italian party could of
itself do nothing, and the proposed marriage would set everything
right. But the evidence must be brought into court and further
sifted, unless the marriage were a settled thing by November. All
this the Countess explained at great length in her letters, calling
upon her daughter to save herself, her mother, and the family.

Lady Anna answered the first epistle,--or rather, wrote another in
return to it;--but she said nothing of her noble lover, except that
Lord Lovel had not as yet come to Yoxham. She confined herself to
simple details of her daily life, and a prayer that her dear mother
might be happy. The second letter from the Countess was severe in its
tone,--asking why no promise had been made, no assurance given,--no
allusion made to the only subject that could now be of interest. She
implored her child to tell her that she was disposed to listen to the
Earl's suit. This letter was in her pocket when the Earl arrived, and
she took it out and read it again after the Earl had whispered in her
ear that word so painfully sweet.

She proposed to answer it before breakfast on the following morning.
At Yoxham rectory they breakfasted at ten, and she was always up at
least before eight. She determined as she laid herself down that she
would think of it all night. It might be best, she believed, to tell
her mother the whole truth,--that she had already promised everything
to Daniel Thwaite, and that she could not go back from her word. Then
she began to build castles in the air,--castles which she declared to
herself must ever be in the air,--of which Lord Lovel, and not Daniel
Thwaite, was the hero, owner, and master. She assured herself that
she was not picturing to herself any prospect of a really possible
life, but was simply dreaming of an impossible Elysium. How many
people would she make happy, were she able to let that young
Phoebus know in one half-uttered word,--or with a single silent
glance,--that she would in truth be his dearest. It could not be so.
She was well aware of that. But surely she might dream of it. All the
cares of that careful, careworn mot