With these thoughts--for it is wonderful how often the same reflexions present themselves to the pure and to the corrupt, only their effects upon action are different--he went forth into the corridor, and opened the door of his daughter's apartments. In the ante-chamber the girl Theresa was sitting alone at her embroidery, and the Count asked, "Where is your mistress? How is it she has not been to greet her father on his return?"
"I know not, my good lord," replied the girl, apparently embarrassed by a certain degree of sternness in his tone. "I believe my lady sleeps; I heard her say she had rested ill last night."
"Go call her," said the Count. "Sleeps at midday! she must be ill. We must have some physician."
The maid did not venture to reply, but went in at once to the lady's chamber; and the moment after Adelaide herself came forth. Her fair face was as pale as death, but yet her air was firm, and she seemed to the eye but little agitated. Her step was slow, however, and showed none of the buoyant joys with which, in former times, she sprang to meet her father.
"How now, my child?" said the Count, as soon as he saw her; "what! sleeping at this time of day? You must be ill, Adelaide."
"I slept not, father," she answered at once; "I never sleep by day."
"Then why came you not, as usual, to meet me?" asked the Count. "In what important task have you been busy that you could not give a moment to greet your father on his return from strife?"
"In prayer," she answered, simply.
"In prayer!" he repeated;--"why in prayer at this hour to-day?"
"At this hour and day in every year I am in prayer," she answered; "for it is the hour and day my mother left me."