"Old brute! Whatever did she mean by her insolence? My lady, I hope you
will do nothing more for the old wretch."

Berenice walked on in silence until they reached the spot where they had
left their carriage, and when they had re-entered it, she said:

"Something like this has vaguely met me before; but never so plainly and
bluntly as to-day; it is unpleasant; but I must not punish one poor old
woman for a misapprehension shared by the whole community."

So calmly and dispassionately had the countess answered her attendant's
indignant exclamation. But as soon as Berenice reached her own chamber
she dismissed her maid, locked her door, and gave herself up to a
passion of grief.

It was but a trifle--that coarse speech of a thoughtless old woman--a
mere trifle; but it overwhelmed her, coming, as it did, after all that
had gone before. It was but the last feather, you know, only a single
feather laid on the pack that broke the camel's back. It was but a drop
of water, a single drop, that made the full cup overflow!

Added to bereavement, desertion, loneliness, slander, ingratitude, had
come this little bit of insolence to overthrow the firmness that had
stood all the rest. And Berenice wept.

She had left home, friends, and country for one who repaid the sacrifice
by leaving her. She had lavished her wealth upon those who received her
bounty with suspicion and repaid her kindness with ingratitude. She had
lived a life as blameless and as beneficent as that of any old time