The old lady's face grew very serious. She understood, these signs, and they troubled her; but she was feeble, and shrank from any knowledge that would bring excitement with it.
"Some day we will talk of all that," she said, with a little weary closing of the eyes.
Clara drew a deep breath. See had been on the verge of making a confidante of the old lady, and felt a sense of relief when the subject was thus evaded.
The countess opened her eyes again.
"Clara," she said, "bring my writing-table here. We will not trouble ourselves to ring for Judson."
Clara dropped her embroidery, and brought the sofa-table, with all its exquisite appointments for writing. The old lady sat upright on her couch, took the pen, and began to write on the creamy note-paper her grandchild had placed before her. Clara watched that slender hand as it glided across the paper, leaving delicate, upright letters perfect as an engraving, as it moved. When the paper was covered, she folded the missive with dainty precision, selected an envelope, on which her coronet was entangled in a monogram, and was about to seal it with a ring, which she took from her finger; but recollecting herself, she drew the letter out, and handed it to Clara, with a smile that kindled her whole face.
Clara read the letter, threw her arms around the old lady, and covered her faces with kisses.
"Oh, grandmamma, you are too good! Do you—do you really mean it? Ah, this is happiness!"
"You shall help me make out the invitations. There was a time when Houghton had no empty chambers. It will go hard, my dear, if we cannot find entertainment for your father and the lady he has married. On that day, Clara, I will present you to the world as my grandchild and heiress."
"Not yet! oh, not yet! Wait till you know more of me."