"Do not let her approach you, Berenice. She is but a low creature; not fit to speak to one of the decent negroes even; and besides she is wringing wet and will give you a cold."
"Poor thing! she will certainly take one herself, mamma; she looks too miserable to live! If you please, I would rather talk with her! Come here, my poor, poor girl! what is it that troubles you so? Tell me! Can I help you? I will, cheerfully, if I can." And the equally "poor" lady, poor in happiness as Nora herself, put her hand in her pocket and drew forth an elegant portmonnaie of jet.
"Put up your purse, lady! It is not help that I want—save from God! I want but a true answer to one single question, if you will give it to me."
"Certainly, I will, my poor creature; but stand nearer the fire; it will dry your clothes while we talk."
"Thank you, madam, I do not need to."
"Well, then, ask me the question that you wish to have answered. Don't be afraid, I give you leave, you know," said the lady kindly.
Nora hesitated, shivered, and gasped; but could not then ask the question that was to confirm her fate; it was worse than throwing the dice upon which a whole fortune was staked; it was like giving the signal for the ax to fall upon her own neck. At last, however, it came, in low, fearful, but distinct words:
"Madam, are you the wife of Mr. Herman Brudenell?"
"Nora Worth, how dare you? Leave the room and the house this instant, before I send for a constable and have you taken away?" exclaimed Mrs. Brudenell, violently pulling at the bell-cord.
"Mamma, she is insane, poor thing! do not be hard on her," said Lady Hurstmonceux gently; and then turning to poor Nora she answered, in the manner of one humoring a maniac: