"It is a boy, my lady; but they don't think it will live!"
"A boy! He shall live! He is mine—my son! I will have him. Since his mother is dead, it is I who have the best right to him!" exclaimed the countess vehemently, rising to her feet.
The maid recoiled—she thought her mistress had suddenly gone mad.
"Phœbe," said the countess eagerly, "what is the hour?"
"Nearly eleven, my lady."
"Has it cleared off?"
"No, my lady; it has come on to rain hard; it is pouring."
The countess went to the windows of her room, but they were too closely shut and warmly curtained to give her any information as to the state of the weather without. Then she hurried impatiently into the passage where the one end window remained with its shutters still unclosed, and she looked out. The rain was lashing the glass with fury. She turned away and sought her own room again—complaining:
"Oh, I can never go to-night! It is too late and too stormy! Mrs. Brudenell would think me crazy, and the woman at the hut would never let me have my son. Yet, oh! what would I not give to have him on my bosom to-night," said Berenice, pacing feverishly about the room.
"My lady," said the maid uneasily, "I don't think you are well at all this evening. Won't you let me give you some salvolatile?"