Ernest had, in truth, been spoilt by circumstances; his conquests had been too easy, and he had mistaken vanity and interest for love. But a deep and true feeling elevates and purifies the heart into which it enters. His passion for Theresa brought back his better nature; and he now bitterly deplored the misery he must have caused the young and forsaken creature, whose happiness he had destroyed by such thoughtless cruelty. "The sacrifice I now make may well be held an atonement."
He turned to leave the gallery as he spoke, but Theresa's voice arrested his steps.
"I have long known your history. Prince Ernest—long looked for this confession. Your wife is now in the Castle; I will prepare her for an interview—from her you must seek your pardon."
She was gone before Von Hermanstadt recovered his breath. It would be vain to say what were his thoughts during the succeeding minutes; shame, surprise—something, too, of pity blended with regret. He had not moved from the spot, when the Countess’s page put a note into his hand.
"I do not wish to let my father know all yet: join us at the end of the acacia wood—your wife there awaits your arrival.—Theresa."
The Prince obeyed the summons mechanically—as in dreams we obey some strange power. A sharp angle in the walk brought him, before he was aware, to the place; and there, as though he had but just parted from her, stood his wife, leaning for support
