A tear glided down the cheek of
Venetia as she watched her mother retaining that letter with fondness
even in her sleep, and when she thought of all the misery, and
heartaches, and harrowing hours that had preceded its receipt, and
which Venetia believed that letter had cured for ever. What misery
awaited them now? Why were they watchers of the night? She shuddered
when these dreadful questions flitted through her mind. She shuddered
and sighed. Her mother started, and woke.
'Who is there?' inquired Lady Annabel.
'Venetia.'
'My child, have you not slept?'
'Yes, mother, and I woke refreshed, as I hope you do.'
'I wake with trust in God's mercy,' said Lady Annabel. 'Tell me the
hour.'
'It is just upon dawn, mother.'
'Dawn! no one has returned, or come.'
'The house is still, mother.'
'I would you were in bed, my child.'
'Mother, I can sleep no more. I wish to be with you;' and Venetia
seated herself at her mother's feet, and reclined her head upon her
mother's knee.
'I am glad the night has passed, Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, in a
suppressed yet solemn tone. 'It has been a trial.' And here she placed
the letter in her bosom. Venetia could only answer with a sigh.
'I wish Pauncefort would come,' said Lady Annabel; 'and yet I do not
like to rouse her, she was up so late, poor creature! If it be the
dawn I should like to send out messengers again; something may be
heard at Spezzia.
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