The evening of preparation was an unquiet one. Hansei, who had much to do, would again and again busy himself with the cow-bells, the tones of which pleased him greatly. He had purchased a well-tuned set, and Irma had praised them when he showed them to her.

They went to bed early, for, on the next morning, they would have to rise long before daybreak.

Hansei, who had been asleep for some time, awoke and heard Walpurga crying and sobbing.

"For God's sake! what's the matter?"

"Oh, if mother were only living!" said Walpurga. "If I only still had my mother!"

"Don't act so. Don't cry, now; it's sinful!"

"What? A sin to mourn for my mother?"

"It all depends on how you mourn. I've often heard it said that, so long as grass hasn't grown over the grave, you may weep for the dead without doing harm to them or the living. After that, there should be no more weeping for the dead; for, as the old proverb says: 'It wets their clothes in the other world.' Don't fall into sinful ways, Walpurga. Your mother lived out her time, and thus it is in the world. Parents must die before their children, and, although I trust that our children won't forget us when we're gone, I hope they'll be able to think of us without weeping. But now--why do you let me talk so much? Am I right, or wrong? What makes you so silent?"

"Yes, yes; it's all right. But don't, I beg of you, ask me anything more now. My head is full of all sorts of thoughts. Good-night."

"Good-night, and don't forget to say 'good-night' to your idle thoughts."

A fleeting smile passed over Walpurga's face at Hansei's kind words, but in the next moment she was again a prey to sad despair and a feeling of utter loneliness. She had wept for her mother, because she alone could have shared Irma's secret with her; but now, when a new and crushing burden oppressed her, there was no living one who could help her.

She suddenly recalled the evening when she had stood in the palace yard, feeling as if she had been transported into the heart of the enchanted mountain, and awed by the dimly lighted statues that seemed to be staring at her. She had come away, bringing golden treasure with her; but what had clung to it? Resentment at the injustice she had experienced gnawed at her heart. "That's the way with the great folk," she muttered, between her teeth. "They condemn without a hearing. I could justify myself, but I won't do it."

"Perhaps you'd rather Irmgard wouldn't move out to the hut?" asked Hansei, after a while.

"Why, I thought you were asleep, long ago," answered Walpurga. "Good-night, again."

She asked herself how it would be if Hansei were to learn what was said of her. How would he bear it? And wasn't it wonderful that, thus far, nothing had been heard of it?

All her pride in the good opinion of others' suddenly turned into shame. The peculiar gift she possessed of imagining what people were saying and thinking, again tormented her, and everything seemed confused, as if a half-waking dream.

She determined to lighten her heart by pouring out her woes to Irma. She sat up in bed and felt for her clothes, but she quickly checked the impulse. How could she inflict this on the penitent? Irma had sufficient strength of mind to renounce everything, and even to let the world regard her as dead. How trifling was Walpurga's trouble in comparison with hers!--And was not the queen also an innocent sufferer? Was not one obliged to suffer for another, all the world through?

She felt as if suddenly endowed with a strength she had never before known. She was willing to suffer for Irma, and even to sacrifice her own good name, for the sake of protecting the penitent.

She thanked fate that Doctor Gunther had treated her unkindly. How would it have been if a friendly reception on his part had induced her to betray a portion of her secret?

The elements that mingled in Walpurga's character were now in agitation, now in repose; the quiet life at home, the unquiet one at court, vanity, honor, humility, a desire to appear of consequence--all these were in a constant ferment. But at last all was clear.

"What have you done for Irma, after all?" she asked herself. "Nothing; you've only let her live with you."

For Irma's sake, she was willing to submit to disgrace.

"It isn't what people think of you, but what you really are, that's most important," thought she to herself, and breathed freely once more.

When she, at last, calmly rested her head on her pillow, she felt as if her mother's hand were stroking her brow.