uld never come up and
trouble her thoughts. And she had kept her word.

But now it suddenly broke forth, more ardent, more powerful, than ever,
till it well-nigh overcame her, and crushed her--sweetly and sadly, like
the memory of lost days, and at the same time cruel and heart-rending,
like bitter remorse.

What had become of him? When he had heard that she was going to marry
the count, he had written to her a letter full of despair, in which he
overwhelmed her with irony and contempt. Later, whether he had forgotten
her or not, he also had married; and the two lovers who had once hoped
to pursue their way through life leaning one upon the other now went
each their own way.

For long hours the poor young wife struggled in the solitude of her
chamber against these ghosts of the past which crowded around her. But,
if ever a guilty thought called up a blush on her brow, she quickly
triumphed over it. Like a brave, loyal woman, she renewed her oath, and
swore to devote herself entirely to her husband. He had rescued her from
abject poverty, and bestowed upon her his fortune and his name; and she
owed it to him in return to make him happy.

She needed all her courage, all her energy, to fulfil her vows; for
the count's character lay fully open before her now, after two years of
married life. She knew precisely how narrow his mind was, how empty his
thoughts, and how cold his heart. She had long since found out that the
brilliant man of the world, whom everybody considered so clever, was
in reality an absolute nullity, incapable of any thought that was not
suggested to him by others, and at the same time full of overweening
self-esteem, and absurdly obstinate.

The worst, however, was, that the count was very near hating his wife.
He had heard so many people say that she was not his equal, that he
finally believed it himself. Besides, he blamed her for the prestige
which he had lost.

An ordinary woman would have shrunk from the difficult task which
Pauline had assumed, and would have thought that nothing more could be
expected of her than to keep sacred her marriage-vows. But the countess
was not an ordinary woman. Full of resignation, she meant to do more
than her duty.

Fortunately, a cradle standing by her bedside made the task somewhat
easier. She had a daughter, her Henrietta; and upon that darling curly
head she built a thousand castles in the air. From that moment she
roused herself from the languor to which