"No, she scarcely ever comes now."
"But the time must be very long to you and your cousin--you were doubtless accustomed to the countess' visits."
"Certainly," replied Josepha, lost in thought--"when I think how it used to be--and how things are now!"
Wildenau glanced around the room, then said softly: "And the little son--he is dead."
Josepha stared at him in terror. "Do you know that?"
"I know all. My cousin has his picture in her boudoir, a splendid child."
Josepha's poor feverish brain was growing more and more confused. The tears she had scarcely conquered flowed again. "Yes, wasn't he--and to let such a child die without troubling herself about him!"
"It is inexcusable," said Wildenau.
"If the countess ever speaks of it again, tell her that Josepha loved it far more than she, for she followed it to the grave while the mother enjoyed her life--she must be ashamed then."
"I will tell her. It is a pity about the beautiful child--was it not like an Infant Christ?"