"You were my child's nurse. I never looked on you as a common servant, but rather as a faithful friend. So did my poor child. When I learned she was in the same country with you and her foster-brother, my heart was somewhat at rest. But her letters were so studied, so unsatisfactory; yet there was nothing in them of sadness or complaint. Only this, Yates, she never mentioned her husband, not once! I should hardly have known that he was with her but for the letter in which he told me that I was a childless old woman."
Mrs. Yates drew a long, heavy sigh. She understood now that the secret of that awful tragedy in New York had been kept from her old mistress, and resolved that it never should reach her—never while her will could keep back the horrible truth.
"My lady," she said, with an effort, "there is one thing which our—which my young mistress bade me bring to you if—if she should not live to place them in your own hands herself. It is this which brought me across the ocean."
As she spoke, Mrs. Yates took up the leathern satchel, which lay against her feet, and opened its rusty clasp with her trembling hands. She drew forth a casket from the scant garments it contained, and, still kneeling on the floor, opened it. A blaze of diamonds broke up from the box. The old countess uttered a feeble cry, and clasped two quivering hands over her eyes.
"She was troubled about bringing them out of England, and sent them to her foster-mother with this letter."
"Is there a letter? Yates, give it to me!"
Mrs. Yates reached forth the letter, which had begun to turn yellow with age.
The countess took it, and attempted to open her glasses; but those little hands trembled so fearfully that she could not loosen the gold which clasped them in.
"Read it for me. I cannot! I cannot!"
Two great tears trembled out of the pain in that aged heart, and fell upon her cheeks like frost upon the white leaves of a withered rose.