Throughout the capital, schools, offices, and workshops were closed. With the exception of, now and then, a noisy group of men who soon entered a large building and disappeared from view, the streets were given over to women and children. It was election day. It seemed as if the thousand and one diversified interests and sentiments that help to make up the life of a city had converged to a single point--as if a great soul were communing with itself. Although it was in broad daylight, a wondrous silence rested upon the deserted streets. Gunther's carriage had just come from Bruno's house, and now stopped at the town-hall. The doctor alighted, went upstairs and gave in his vote. In consideration of his being a physician in active practice, he was allowed to vote before his turn. He returned to his carriage and drove home, When he entered the sitting-room, his wife handed him a telegram which had just been received. Gunther opened it.

"What's the matter?" exclaimed Madame Gunther, for she had never before seen so great a change in her husband's face.

He handed her the telegram and she read:

"Count Eberhard Wildenort paralyzed. Deprived of speech. Send word to son and daughter to come at once; if possible, you also.

"Doctor Mann, District Physician."

"You are going?" said Madame Gunther in an agitated, but scarcely inquiring tone. Gunther nodded affirmatively.

"I've one request to make," continued Madame Gunther. With a slight motion of his hand, the doctor intimated that he wished her to proceed. He felt as if his tongue were palsied.

"I'd like to go with you," said she.

"I don't understand you."

"Sit down," said the wife, and when Gunther had seated himself, she placed her gentle hand upon his lofty forehead. His face brightened, and she went on to say:

"Wilhelm, this is a terrible visitation. Let me do all I can to alleviate the grief of the lost child whom this dread message will soon reach. I can imagine her feelings. Who knows? Perhaps her own actions have been the cause of this.--Although she rides in her carriage, I shall assist her as faithfully as if she were a poor outcast; and if the poor soul repels me, I shall not leave her. I don't know what may happen, but the moment may come when she will feel it a comfort to rest the head now scourged by thorns against a woman's heart. Do let me go with you?"

"I've no objection. For the present, however, you had better get everything ready for my departure." He drove to Bruno's house.

As soon as the latter noticed his sad looks, he exclaimed: "And so your party was beaten?"

"Not yet," replied Gunther, gently breaking the news to Bruno.

Bruno turned away, hurriedly gathered up several letters that were lying on the table and locked them up in his desk. He was soon ready to go with Gunther to Irma, to whom they broke the sad news as gently as possible.

"I knew it! I knew it!" cried Irma. Not another word escaped her. She went into her bedchamber and threw herself on the bed; but she had hardly touched the pillow before she sprang up as if thrust back, and then knelt on the floor and swooned away. When she returned to the reception room, her features wore a fixed, rigid expression. She gave hurried orders to her servant and her maid to prepare for the journey. The doctor withdrew, in order to ask for leave of absence, and promised to procure leave for Irma, too.

"You ought to bid adieu to the queen, before you go," said Bruno.

"No, no!" cried Irma vehemently. "I cannot; I will not."

There was no servant in the antechamber. There was a knock at the door. Irma started. "Was the king coming?"

"Come in!" said Bruno. Madame Gunther entered.

Irma could not utter a word, but her eyes seemed to ask: "You here? and now?"

Madame Gunther told her that she had heard the sad news, and would regard it as a proof of her friendship, if Irma would allow her to accompany her.

"Thank you, with all my heart," stammered Irma.

"Then you grant my request?"

"I thank you; on my knees, I'll thank you; but I beg of you, don't make me talk much now."

"There's no need of your doing so, dear Countess," said Madame Gunther. "You've apparently neglected or forgotten me; but in your heart, you've remembered me. And even if it were otherwise, there was one short hour during which we opened our hearts to each other."

Irma raised her hands as if to shield herself,--as if the kind words pierced her like so many arrows. In a soothing voice, Madame Gunther added: "I shall consider it a kindness, if you will allow me to be kind to you; you have no mother and, perhaps--you will soon have no father."

Irma groaned aloud and pressed her hands to her eyes.

"My dear child," said Madame Gunther, placing her hand upon Irma's arm. Irma started--"there are many of God's creatures on earth, so that the sympathy of those whom misfortune has spared may serve as a support to the afflicted, and as a light in the hour of darkness. I beg of you, do not be proud in your grief. Let me share in all that the next few days may have in store for you."

"Proud? proud?" asked Irma, suddenly grasping Madame Gunther's hand and as suddenly dropping it again. "No, dear honored madame. I appreciate your affectionate motives. I understand--I know--all. I could calmly accept your kindness. I know--at least I think--that I, too, would have just acted as you do, if--"

"This is the best and the only thanks," interposed Madame Gunther, but Irma motioned her to stop, and continued:

"I entreat you, do not torture me. Your husband and my brother will accompany me. I beg of you, say nothing more. I thank you; I shall never forget your kindness."

Gunther entered the room again and Irma said:

"Is everything ready? We have no time to lose."

She bowed to Madame Gunther, and would gladly have embraced her, but could not.

Madame Gunther, who had never, before this, set foot in the palace, had only come to succor a ruined one. Never had the thought of herself so filled Irma with anguish and remorse, as when this embodiment of loving-kindness had held out her hand to her.

The thought that she no longer dared approach the pure pained her as if demons were tearing her to pieces. Her first impulse was to throw herself at Madame Gunther's feet.

She controlled herself, however, and, looking at her with a fixed gaze, passed on.

The parrot in the anteroom spread out its wings, as if it, too, wanted to go along, and screamed; "God keep you, Irma!"

As if veiled in a cloud, Irma walked through the corridor. At the palace gate, she met the king coming out of the park with Schnabelsdorf, who had a number of dispatches in his hand, and whose cheerful looks were owing to the news of victory which he had just received.

To Irma, the king and Schnabelsdorf seemed like misty forms. She wore a double black veil, for she did not care to gratify the idle curiosity of the court, by making a show of the face on which grief had done its work.

The king drew near. She could not remove her veil. He seemed far, far away. She heard his friendly and, of course, kind words, but she knew not what he said.

The king extended his hand to Gunther, then to Bruno, and, at last, to Irma. He pressed her hand tenderly, but she did not return the pressure.

They got into the carriage. Just as they were about to start, Irma, noticing Madame Gunther's hand on the carriage door, bent down and kissed it. The next moment they were gone.

They were silent for some time. After they had passed the first village, Bruno took out a cigar, saying to Irma, who sat opposite him: "I'm a man, and a man must calmly accept the inevitable. Show that you, too, have a strong mind."

Irma did not reply. She threw back her veil and looked out of the window. Her departure had been so hurried that she was just beginning to recover herself.

"You ought to have taken leave of the queen in person," said Bruno, in a calm tone. The long silence was irksome to him. Such dark hours should be made to pass as agreeably as possible. When he found that Irma still remained silent, he added: "For you know that the queen's tender nature is so easily offended."

Irma still made no reply, but Gunther said:

"Yes; it were sacrilege to offend the queen. No one but a savage would dare to weaken her faith in human goodness and veracity."

Gunther expressed himself with unwonted energy, and his words cut Irma to the heart. Was it she who had committed sacrilege? And then the thought gradually dawned upon her; the queen is his ideal; the king is mine. Who knows whether the mask of intellectual affinity may not have served to screen--Quick as thought, she dropped her veil; her breathing was short and fast; her cheeks were burning. He who knows himself to be--must judge others--nothing is perfect--no one--She felt as if she must speak, and at last said: "The queen deserves to have a friend like you."

"I place myself beside you," said Gunther calmly. "I believe that we both deserve the friendship of that pure heart."

"And so you believe that friendship can exist between married people of different sex?" inquired Bruno.

"I know it," replied Gunther.

At the first posting-house, where they came upon noisy crowds, the postmaster informed them that the election was going on, and that the contest was quite an excited one. The "Blacks" would certainly be defeated.

Bruno, who had alighted, asked the postillion:

"My noble fellow-citizen, have you exercised your sovereign right of voting to-day?"

"Yes, and against the 'Blacks'."

They drove on.

Bruno did not get out at the other stations. They were drawing near to Eberhard's district. While they were changing horses at the assize town, they heard loud cries of: "Long live Count Eberhard! Victory!"

"What's that?" inquired Gunther, putting his head out of the carriage door.

He was informed that, in spite of the "Blacks," Count Eberhard would prove the victor. The opposition had started a contemptible rumor, intended to disgrace the old count. But, although meant to injure others, it had proved a stumbling-block to themselves; for every one had said: "A father can't help what his child does, and, for that very reason, greater respect should now be shown him."--Irma drew back into the dark corner of the carriage and held her breath.

They drove on without saying a word.

After they had started, Bruno said it was too warm for him in the carriage, and that it did not agree with him to ride backward. Still, he would not suffer Gunther to change seats with him. He ordered the carriage to stop and, telling the lackey to sit up with the driver, placed himself on the back seat, next to the waiting-maid. Irma took off her hat and laid her head back. It was heavy with sad thoughts. Now and then, when the road lay along the edge of a precipice, she would quickly raise herself in her seat. She felt as if she must plunge into the abyss; but, weak and feeble, she would fall back again. Gunther, too, remained silent; and thus they drove on through the night, without uttering a word.

At one time, the waiting-maid would have laughed out aloud, but Bruno held his hand over her mouth and prevented her.