Her cogitations were interrupted by hearing her name announced in a loud
voice by the page, and finding herself in presence of the object of her
thoughts.

"Isabella, dearest Isabella, 'tis even thine own dear self. I deemed the
boy's tale well-nigh impossible," was her hasty exclamation, as with a
much quicker step she advanced towards the countess, who met her
half-way, and warmly returned her embrace, saying as she did so--

"This is kind, indeed, dearest Mary, to welcome me so soon; 'tis long,
long years since we have met; but they have left as faint a shadow on
thy affections as on mine."

"Indeed, thou judgest me truly, Isabella. Sorrow, methinks, doth but
soften the heart and render the memory of young affections, youthful
pleasures, the more vivid, the more lasting: we think of what we have
been, or what we are, and the contrast heightens into perfect bliss that
which at the time, perchance, we deemed but perishable joy."

"Hast thou too learnt such lesson, Mary? I hoped its lore was all
unknown to thee."

"It was, indeed, deferred so long, so blessedly, I dared to picture
perfect happiness on earth; but since my husband's hateful captivity,
Isabella, there can be little for his wife but anxiety and dread. But
these--are these thine?" she added, gazing admiringly and tearfully on
Agnes and Alan, who had at their mother's sign advanced from the
embrasure, where they had held low yet earnest converse, and gracefully
acknowledged the stranger's notice. "Oh, wherefore bring them here, my