imid remonstrance, 'if the
Swedish count is your old acquaintance, you ought to have invited the
young count to come with him. He is at any rate his foster son, and
such a modest young man.'

'You appear to be pleased with him, Georgina?' said the mother, looking
earnestly at her daughter. The latter dropped her eyes to the floor,
blushed deeply, and remained silent.

'It is our duty to suffer ourselves to be sought,' said the matron to
the maiden. 'It is proper for the other sex to seek. If the young man's
heart speak as prematurely as yours, he will come, even without an
invitation.'

'You are wholly right, mamma!' cried the daughter, as if now first
struck by an important truth, passionately kissing her hand.

'Leave me alone, my child,' said the mother. 'I have need of solitude
to prepare myself for a sweet, sad hour. Seat yourself meantime, at
your piano, and practise the bass of that beautiful sonata for four
hands.

'Now?' cried Georgina, clasping her hands in despair. 'Ah, mamma! I
positively cannot practise now.'

'It may perhaps cost you some effort,' said the mother, smiling, 'but
it will do you good. Go to your practice, my daughter.'

Georgina departed, shrugging her shoulders, and the storm of emotion,
so long restrained, once again floated over the face of the mother, who
had hitherto struggled with all her power, to conceal her feelings from
the eyes of observers. 'God give me strength for the sorrow and the joy
of this interview!' cried she, sinking upon the sofa.

CHAPTER LVI.

The hour had struck. The daughter opened the door of the cabinet, and,
accompanied by his adopted son, Arwed count Gyllenstierna entered.
Neither years nor sufferings had been able to bow his tall figure. The
lineaments of his face, however, told of sad mental struggles and
glorious victories. His locks of gold were bleached to silver, and
upon his newly made black national uniform shone the magnificent
seraphim-order, and with the sword and crown of the order of military
merit, the peaceful sheaf of the order of Vasa. He remained standing,
and cast upon the beloved of his youth, from his large blue and still
brilliant eyes, a glance which cut her to the soul. Lady baroness von
Eyben!' said he, in a tone in which love and anger, reproach and
rapture, were strangely mingled.

It was too much for the heart of the matron. 'Not so, Arwed, not so!'
cried she, beseechingly, and attempte