“You said your father and mother were going to Scotland. What is your address there?”
“Cobleigh Towers. It is on the Scottish side of the Tweed, opposite Berwick. Let me see. Oh, if my letters are sent to Carlisle they will reach me.”
“Well, my advice is,” said the Countess, “that you rejoin your father and mother and be as patient as you can for the next ten days. If by that time I receive no word, I, too, shall lose hope. I will then agree with you that the best way to dull your sorrow will be to choose a life of action; that and labour are the only panaceas for such grief.”
“I will do it,” said Jack. “I will do anything to please you.”
Another week passed. The Countess still hoped from day to day, but each night saw no fruition. One morning, as the Countess was reclining in her boudoir, reading the monthly report of the steward of her Corsican estate, her maid announced that there were two young ladies in the drawing-room who wished to see her.
It was some time before the Countess had made the necessary change in dress and descended to greet her visitors. She surveyed, with a look akin to astonishment, the two very pretty young ladies who came forward to greet her. The one with dark hair spoke first.
“Is this Countess Mont d’Oro?”
The Countess bowed.
“I am Mrs. Glynne—Mrs. Clarence Glynne—and this is my friend Miss——”
She did not have an opportunity to complete the sentence, for the Countess stepped forward quickly and clasped the other young girl in her arms.