While the Baron was thus loyally doing his duty, his Baroness, being ignorant of the excellence of his purpose, and knowing only that he had deceived her in one matter, and that the descent to Avernus is easy, passed a number of very miserable days.  That heart-breaking “us both” kept her awake at nights and distraught throughout the day, and when for a little she managed to explain the phrase away, and tried to anchor her trust in Rudolph once more, the vision of the St. Petersburg window overlooking the crops would come to shatter her confidence.  She wrote a number of passionate replies, but as the Baron in making his arrangements with his Russian friend had forgotten to provide him with his Scotch address, these letters only reached him after the events of this chronicle had passed into history.  Strange to say, her only consolation was that neither her mother nor Sir Justin was able to supply any further evidence of any kind whatsoever.  One would naturally suppose that the assistance they had gratuitously given would have made her feel eternally indebted to them; but, on the contrary, she was actually inconsistent enough to resent their head-shakings nearly as much as her Rudolph’s presumptive infidelity.  So that her lot was indeed to be deplored.

At last a second letter came, and with trembling fingers, locked in her room, the forsaken lady tore the curiously bulky envelope apart.  Then, at the sight of the enclosure that had given it this shape, her heart lightened once more.

“A sprig of white heather!” she cried.  “Ah, he loves me still!”

With eager eyes she next devoured the writing accompanying this token; and as the Baron’s head happened to be clearer when he composed this second epistle, and his friend’s hints peculiarly judicious, it conveyed so plausible an account of his proceedings, and contained so many expressions of his unaltered esteem, that his character was completely reinstated in her regard.

Having read every affectionate sentence thrice over, and given his exceedingly interesting statements of fact the attention they deserved, she once more took up the little bouquet and examined it more curiously and intently.  She even untied the ribbon, when, lo and behold! there fell a tiny and tightly folded twist of paper upon the floor.  Preparing herself for a delicious bit of sentiment, she tenderly unfolded and smoothed it out.

“Verses!” she exclaimed rapturously; but the next instant her pleasure gave place to a look of the extremest mystification.

“What does this mean?” she gasped.

There was, in fact, some excuse for her perplexity, since the precise text of the enclosure ran thus: 

          “Tolord Tulliwuddle.

     “O Chieftain, trample on this heath
     Which lies thy springing foot beneath! 
     It can recover from thy tread,
     And once again uplift its head! 
     But spare, O Chief, the tenderer plant,
     Because when trampled on, it can’t! 
                              “Eva.”