upon as neutral ground,
where political intrigues and party strife were alike tabooed. The
countess spent a whole winter in making her observations.

The world, seeing her sit modestly by her fireside, thought she was
wholly occupied with her pretty daughter, Henrietta, who was always
playing or reading by her side. But she was all the time listening, and
trying, with all her mental powers, to understand the great questions
of the day. She studied characters; watched the passions of some, and
discovered the cunning tricks of others, ever anxious to find out what
enemies she would have to fear, and what allies to conciliate. Like one
of those ill-taught professors who study in the morning what they mean
to teach in the afternoon, she prepared herself for the lessons which
she soon meant to give. Fortunately her apprenticeship was short, thanks
to her superior intellect, her womanly cleverness, and rare talents
which no one suspected.

She soon reaped the fruit of her labors.

The next winter the count, who had so far kept aloof from politics,
came out with his opinions. He soon made his mark, aided by his fine
appearance, his elegant manners, and imperturbable self-possession. He
spoke in public, and made an impression by his good common-sense.
He advised others, and they were struck by his sagacity. He had soon
enthusiastic partisans, and, of course, as violent adversaries. His
friends encouraged him to become the leader of his party; and he worked
day and night to achieve that end.

"Unfortunately I have to pay for it at home," he said to his intimate
friends; "for my wife is one of those timid women who cannot understand
that men are made for the excitement of public life. I should be still
in the province, if I had listened to her."

She enjoyed her work in quiet delight. The greater the success of her
husband in the world, the prouder she became of her own usefulness to
him. Her feelings were very much those of a dramatic poet who hears the
applause given to the characters which he has created.

But there was this wonderful feature in her work,--that nobody suspected
her; no one, not even her own child. She wanted Henrietta, as little as
the world, to know what she was to her husband; and she taught her not
only to love him as her father, but to respect and admire him as a man
of eminence. Of course, the count was the very last man to suspect any
thing. He might have been told all, and he would have believed