"Why—surely——"
"Ah, I know not." She loosened her arms and sank on to the stool near the stove. "Sometimes I feel as if the sands were running out of me. You know," she smiled wistfully, "I have an unfortunate name; the last Mary Stewart, the Prince his mother, was not thirty when she died—of smallpox."
She was silent, and something in her manner held Lady Sunderland silent too.
"A terrible thing to die of," added Mary, after a little. "I often think of it; when you are young it must be hard, humanly speaking, but God knoweth best."
"I wonder why you think of that now?" asked Lady Sunderland gently.
"I wonder! We must go to bed ... this is marvellous news we have had to-night ... to know that I must sail when the ice breaketh ... good night, my Lady Sunderland."
The Countess took her leave and Mary put out the candles, which left the room only illumed by the steady glow from the white, hot heart of the open stove.
Mary drew the curtains from the tall window and looked out.
It was a clear frosty night, utterly silent; the motionless branches of the trees crossed and interlaced into a dense blackness, through which the stars glimmered suddenly, and suddenly seemed to disappear.
The chimes of the Groote Kerk struck the half-hour, and the echoes dwelt in the silence tremblingly.