It seems as if, even in the quietest life, there are days in which the whole world has, as it were, agreed that visits and interruptions should never cease.

Gunther was in his room, and had scarcely had time to compose himself, after reading the queen's letter. It was evident, he thought, that the king designed to bring about a reconciliation between himself and his consort, through the agency of the dismissed friend. Gunther was willing to aid him in this, but not to have the even tenor of his life interfered with. The queen's hint in regard to Bronnen accorded with his own observations, and just then he could hear Paula singing--for the first time this year by the open window--and her voice seemed expressive of a bridal moon. He felt that Paula deserved to be happy, and that her marriage with his exalted friend would best promote the happiness of both. But he was firmly resolved, even in that event, never again to leave his birthplace.

Buried in thought, Gunther was sitting in his room.

The servant announced the freeholder's wife.

"No--Walpurga!" cried a voice, and before the servant could bring the answer, Walpurga had entered the room.

"Ah, dear Doctor, you're our neighbor! I heard, only a minute ago, that you were living here, and it's scarcely four hours' walk from our farm. Yes, that's the way people live hereabouts: alone and away from each other, just as if one were dead."

She offered her hand to Gunther, but he was busily engaged in gathering up some papers, and inquired:

"Does your mother still live?"

"Alas! no. Oh, if she had only lived to see Doctor Gunther once more! Who knows whether she wouldn't be living yet, if we could have called you when she was sick."

Walpurga wept at the remembrance of her mother. Gunther seated himself and asked:

"What is it you want?"

"How? What?" asked Walpurga, quickly, drying her tears. "And you never once ask how it fares with me?"

"You're prosperous and have changed but little."

"May I sit down?" asked Walpurga, in an anxious voice. This cold reception from one who had always been so kind to her, affected her so deeply that she could scarcely stand. She looked about her as if bewildered, and at last said:

"And is there nothing more you want to ask me? Where I live and how my husband and children are?"

"Walpurga," said Gunther, rising from his seat, "lay aside your old acting."

"What? acting? I don't know what you mean! What have I to do with acting?"

"That does not concern us now. Did you want to ask me anything? or have you anything to tell me?"

"To be sure; that's just why I came."

"What is it?"

"Yes; but you seem so strange that my thoughts are quite mixed up. Hansei doesn't know that I've come here, and not another soul in the world is to know about it but yourself. I can keep a secret; I have kept one. I can be trusted."

"I know it," said the physician, in a hard voice.

"You know it? How? You can't know it, and I shan't tell you all of it, either. I might have told you, but after such a reception, I can't."

"Do as you please; speak or be silent; but cut it short, for I have very little time."

"Then I'd rather come some other time."

"I can't receive you for mere talk. Tell me now what you have to say."

"Well then. Doctor--Oh, dear me, to think that you don't even shake hands with me. I can't get over it. But I see, that's the way it is with great folk; it's all the same--thank God, I know where I'm at home!"

"Cease your empty talk!" said Gunther, interrupting her still more sharply. "What have you to tell me? Can I help you in any way?"

"Me? Thank God, nothing ails me. I only wanted to say that under-forester Steingassinger lives out on the dairy-farm, and that his wife is my friend and companion, Stasi. Early last winter, she told me that the king was coming here this summer, and all I wanted to say was that if he cares to pay me a visit at the freehold, he's quite welcome. I might have said something more, but I see I'd better not. I'd rather not break an oath."

Gunther nodded.

"If the king wishes to pay you a visit, I will tell him what you have said."

"And isn't our dear, good queen coming, too! I've often been kept awake at nights by anger and sorrow, when I thought that she doesn't concern herself about me. And she promised me so solemnly that she would. I can't understand how it is; but it's all right, I suppose. And how is the little prince? And is it true that you are not in favor and have been dismissed from the court? And is that why you are living here in this little house?"

Gunther gave her an evasive reply, and said that he had other matters to attend to.

Walpurga arose from her seat, but could not move from the spot. She could not understand why she should be treated thus, and it was only because she had previously made up her mind to do so, that she invited Gunther to visit her, and asked permission to see Madame Gunther for a few moments. She hoped that she, at least, would receive her kindly and afford her some explanation of the Doctor's repellant manner.

"Go to her," replied Gunther, turning away and taking up a book. Walpurga left the room.

She stopped in the passageway and asked herself whether she was not dreaming. She who had once been the crown prince's nurse was now treated as if they had never known her. She, the freeholder's wife--her pride rose, as she thought of her vast homestead--was sent away like a beggar.

She no longer cared to speak with Madame Gunther. Her lips trembled with grief at the thought of how wicked the great people were. And yet they could praise this house, and she, too, had once praised it, as though none but holy persons lived in it.

She left the house, and, while walking through the garden, met Madame Gunther, who started back when she recognized Walpurga.

"Don't you remember me?" asked Walpurga, holding out her hand towards her.

"Indeed I do," said Madame Gunther, without noticing the hand that was offered her. "Where do you come from?"

"From my farm. I'm the freeholder's wife, and if you, Madame, had come to me, I wouldn't have let you stand out of doors in this way; I'd have asked you to come inside, into my room."

"But I don't ask you," replied Madame Gunther, "I put nothing in the way of those who leave the straight path, but I do not invite them into my house."

"And when did I leave the straight path? What have I done?"

"I am not your judge."

"Anyone may judge me. What have I done? You must tell me."

"I must not; but I will. You will have to answer to yourself how all the money was earned with which you bought your great farm. Good-day!"

She went into the house.

Walpurga stood there, alone. The houses, the mountains, the woods, the fields--all swam before her, and her eyes were filled with bitter tears.

Gunther had been looking out of the window, during Walpurga's interview with his wife, and, by the manner of the latter, felt satisfied that the peasant woman had been told some unpleasant truths.

He now saw Walpurga walk away; she would stop now and then, and dry her tears with her apron. The woman repents, at any rate, thought he to himself, and she's only another proof of the far-reaching and all-corroding effects of evil.

It was long before Gunther could be made to believe that Walpurga had received a large sum of money in return for wicked services, but it had been judicially proven that the farm had been paid for in new coin, such as only passes through princely hands. And just because Gunther had believed in Walpurga's simple true-heartedness, and had staked his word upon it, he was all the more embittered against her.

He was resolved to clear up the matter as soon as the opportunity offered.