"How do you live in the country in winter?" asked the queen while she sat by the cradle of her child. "Well enough," replied Walpurga, "but wood is getting to be quite dear. We're glad when spring returns. To be sure, my Hansei has good earnings in the winter, when the wood can be brought down the snow road to the valley. Mother always says our Lord's the greatest of all road-masters, for He can make roads and make it easy to bring the wood where no man can."

"You have a good mother. Give her my love, and when I again go to the mountains, I shall visit her."

"Oh, if you only would!"

"And now," resumed the queen, "tell me how you pass your time during the winter."

"When the housework for the day is done, the women spin. The men spend the day in the forest, cutting wood, and, when night comes, they're so tired that they hardly ever cut kindling-wood."

"And do you sing much at such times?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"And do you never read to each other?"

"No, never. But we like to tell stories, and frighten each other as much as we can."

"And do you sometimes dance?"

"Yes, at carnival time; but there's not much of that nowadays. They say it used to be much better in old times."

"Do you never find the day hang heavy on your hands?"

"No, never; we've no time for that."

The queen smiled when she looked at the astral lamp that stood on the table, and thought of the many expedients that society employed to kill time.

The queen at length said: "And do you feel quite sure that your husband is always true to you? Do you never think of his being otherwise?"

"Mother often says that the men are all good for nothing, but she says my Hansei's not like the rest of 'em. He'd be heartily ashamed of himself if he spoke a loving word to another woman. It would haunt him day and night, and he'd never be able to look any one in the face again. He's not one of your sharp, clever folks--far from it; but he's good, thoroughly good at heart; a little bit close in money matters, and he's always afraid that, some time or other, we might come to want. However, one who has to save every kreutzer can easily get used to that. But, thank God, that's over, now."

When Walpurga had once begun to talk, she would, unless interrupted, run on like a mountain spring. She had a thousand and one little stories to tell.--How she had, for the first time, bought three geese, two white and one gray; how many feathers she got from them, and what a good price she obtained for the feathers; and that she now had eight ducks--they were much more useful than geese, and required but little food; and that her goat was wondrous clever. They had once had a sheep, but that was nothing. They belong in flocks and don't thrive well alone. At last, Walpurga said that she could hardly believe that they really had two cows of their own in the stable. She had never, in all her life, even wished for so much. And then she spoke of the innkeeper and said that, although one couldn't trust him, it was necessary to keep on good terms with him, for, if he was your enemy, you might as well be put out of the village and the principal house would be closed to you. The innkeeper would, once in a while, do you a favor, if he lost nothing by it. He had paid a good price for her ducks and fish, and if you should happen to need it, you could always get a little from him on trust. She didn't want to speak ill of him, but he had once been impudent to her; but she had taught him a lesson that he'd remember as long as he lived. She hoped the queen wouldn't do anything to him for that; he was good enough, after all, considering that he was an innkeeper. But there were ever so many good people in their neighborhood. They didn't give anything away, and she wouldn't want their gifts, but when you know that on every hillside there are people who feel kindly toward you, it makes the whole neighborhood seem as if it were one warm room.

The queen smiled.

Walpurga went on talking. The more she talked, the more the child prattled and crowed and clapped its hands; the sound of his nurse's voice pleased him, and Walpurga said:

"He's just like a canary-bird; when there's lots of chattering in the room, he joins in with his merry song. Isn't it so, you canary-bird?" said she, shaking her head at the child, while it crowed yet more lustily than before.

Buried in thought, the queen passed her hand over her face several times. Walpurga's words had transported her into another world. And so, thought she, there are other beings, beneath me and far away, who pass their days in work and care and yet are happy.

"What makes you look so sad?" asked Walpurga.

Her question had recalled the queen to herself. No one had ever read her face in this way. No one could, or would have questioned her thus.

The queen made no answer, and Walpurga continued:

"Oh, my dear queen, I can't help thinking you must have a hard time of it. To have plenty of everything isn't so good for one after all. It's like having your heaven on earth. Have you never felt lonely and lorn? When one wakes to sorrow and thinks that one still has sound limbs, and can work, and can see the sun and know that there are still good people in the world--it's then that you really feel at home in the world. Oh, my dear queen, don't be sad. You couldn't, if you knew how happy you ought to feel."

The queen was silent for a long while. There must have been something in Walpurga that suggested the thought, for she at last said: "They play William Tell to-night. I would like you to go to the theater, for once."

Walpurga said:

"I'd like to go, well enough. Mademoiselle Kramer has told me a great deal about it; it must be splendid, but I can't take the child with me, and I can't leave it alone for so long a time. See how he listens, and what a cross voice he has already. He understands everything we say, I'll bet my head on it."

The boy began to cry. Walpurga took him up in her arms, fondled him and sang:

The little prince was soon quieted and fell asleep.

"Yes, you're right," said the queen, after a pause. "Remain just as you are, and when you go home again, don't think of what is past. Only think that your lot is the best in the world."

The queen left. Walpurga felt like telling Mademoiselle Kramer that the queen was very sad, and was about to ask what could be the matter; but, with clever tact, she refrained from alluding to the subject. The queen had been so confiding and so sisterly with her, that it would not do to speak of it to any one else; and perhaps, too, the queen did not wish others to know that she was sad.

For many days, there was a pilgrimage of court ladies and gentlemen to Walpurga for the sake of seeing something that was quite new to them. Doctor Gunther had given Walpurga permission to get a distaff and spin. To see a spinning-wheel in use seemed like a fairy-tale. Few of the ladies and gentlemen had ever seen such a thing before, and now they came and looked on wonderingly. Walpurga, however, always laughed merrily when she wound a fresh thread on the spindle. All the court came to look at the distaff, and Schoning declared that this was the implement with which Little Thomrose had injured herself.

Irma was again the object of envy, for she, too, knew how to spin and, like a village neighbor, would sometimes come and join threads for Walpurga. They both sat spinning at the same distaff, and, while they worked, their voices joined in merry songs.

"What's to be done with what we spin?" asked Irma.

Walpurga was vexed, for the question had destroyed the charm. She said: "Little shirts for my prince; but they must only be of my spinning." After that, she laid the bobbins which Irma had filled in a separate place. The threads which she had moistened with her own lips, should be the only ones used by the prince.

Irma could not help telling Baron Schoning of Walpurga's plan, and it suggested to him a poem, in which he alluded to the legend of a fairy, or enchanted princess, who was spinning flax for her darling. The queen was delighted with the poem, and, for the first time, and with perfect sincerity, praised the Baron's verses.

Walpurga was sitting at her distaff and telling the prince in the cradle the story of the King of the Carps, who swims about at the bottom of the lake. He's more than seven thousand years old, wears a crown on his head, has a great long beard and, up over him, millions of fishes are swimming about and playing tag with each other and when one's naughty and envious and quarrelsome and disobedient, the naughty pike comes and eats him, and then comes the fisherman who catches the pike, and then comes the cook who cuts up the pike, and then all the little fishes jump out and go back into the lake and come to life and tell all that's happened to them, how dark it was in the pike's belly, and how much brighter it is in the sea and, in the mean while, the pike is cut in pieces and eaten, and if one's not very careful, he'll get a fish-bone in his mouth, and that'll make him cough, and Walpurga coughed with great skill.

The door suddenly opened and, to Walpurga's great alarm, a handsome young officer entered, went straight up to her, saluted her in military fashion, and, while twirling his mustache, asked:

"Have I the honor of addressing the magic spinner, named Walpurga Andermatten, from the cottage by the lake?"

"Yes; dear me, what can be the matter?"

"I am sent by the spirit Kussschmatzky, and he commands me to kiss you three times in order to break, a spell."

Walpurga trembled. It was her own fault. Why had she told the child so many fairy-tales, and now it had all come true. All at once, the officer threw his arms about her neck, and kissed her with all his might, and then laughed until he could no longer stand, and seating himself, exclaimed:

"And so you really don't know me? That's splendid. Don't you know your friend Irma, any more?"

"You rogue! You good-for-nothing rogue," burst out Walpurga. "Pardon me. Countess Irma, but who'd have thought of such a thing; and you threw me into such a fright! What's it all about? Is it carnival time already?"

"Walpurga, if you understood the language, you might see me in a French play this evening. The king is also going to act. I'm sorry, for I'd rather had you in the audience than any of the rest. But I've had sufficient applause already; you didn't know me. I'm glad of that at all events."

"And I'm heartily sorry," said Walpurga, becoming quite serious. "Oh, dear Countess, do you know what you're doing? It's the greatest sin to put on men's clothes, for then the devil's master over one. Don't laugh at me! I'm not so silly as you think. It's just as true as can be. Grubersepp's grandfather had a daughter, and she had a sweetheart who was off at the wars, and while she was sitting in the room spinning, just as I was a little while ago, a girl dressed herself up in soldier's clothes, and went into the room and acted just as if she was the sweetheart himself. Grubersepp's daughter fainted, but got over it again and the disguised girl ran away. And as soon as she got out of the house, there were hundreds of men with whips and horses' heads, and they chased her ever so far and, at last, the devil caught her, tore her to pieces and threw her into the lake. Yes, it's a true story; you can take my word for it. There are people enough living to this day who knew her."

"You're enough to make one quite melancholy," said Irma.

"Perhaps such things only happen with us," said Walpurga, as if to console her. "The soldiers out there, with their swords and muskets, wouldn't let the devil enter here; but, my dear, good Countess, don't you feel ashamed to wear those clothes before so many people?"

"You belong to a different world from ours. You're right, and so are we," said Irma, walking up and down the room quickly and rattling her spurs. "No, Walpurga, don't alarm yourself about me, and don't take your fright so much to heart."

She was again the same careless, true-hearted creature that she had ever been, and Walpurga could not help saying:

"Oh, how beautiful! you look just like a prince."

Walpurga's eyes rested on the door long after Irma had left. It seemed to her as if it had all been a dream.

Many days passed by, and Irma was always blithe and cheerful when with Walpurga. They would sing and spin, and the king and queen once came together--they had never done so before--and seated themselves by the child's cradle, while they looked at, and listened to, the workers. Walpurga was timid at first, but, after a while, sang quite cheerfully.

A veritable surprise was in store for Walpurga. Christmas eve arrived. The manner in which it was observed at her home, had been transplanted hither by the queen. Walpurga and the child were conducted into the great saloon, where the Christmas tree was all ablaze with lights, and where there also were many rich presents.

It seemed to her as if she were in a fairy grotto; there was so much glitter and sparkle, and the presents were so rich and varied. The child shouted for joy and was ever putting out its little hands to grasp the lights. Walpurga received lavish gifts, but, although the dazzling gold and the rich garnet necklace with golden clasp delighted her, a well-arranged table covered with clothing pleased her more than all the rest. There was a complete winter suit for Walpurga's mother, another, with a beautiful green hat, for Hansei, and many articles of clothing for little Burgei.

"Does it all please you?" asked the queen. "I sent to your village to get the measure."

"Oh, how it does please me!" said Walpurga; "If I could thank you as many times as there are threads in these clothes, it wouldn't be enough."

A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she sent Baum to her room to get the yarn which was hanging there. He soon returned with it and, presenting it to the queen, in the king's presence, she said: "As often as I've wetted each thread with my lips, do I thank you. I shall pray for you as long as I can move my lips, and all will go well with you."

The king held out his hand to her and said: "You're a good soul, but don't excite yourself so." She pressed his hand firmly.

Walpurga was sitting in her room, late at night, when the queen came to her.

"I'm glad you've come," said Walpurga, softly.

"Why? Does anything ail the child?"

"No; thank God, he's quiet. See how he clenches his little fists while he sleeps. But, on this night, at twelve, a Sunday child sees everything. He can hear all that the angels in heaven and the beasts in the wood are saying. One must always be with him at that time, and keep on saying the paternoster, and then no harm will come to him."

"Yes, I'll stay with you; that can do no harm. But you must not torment yourself so with your belief."

Walpurga looked at the queen with a strange expression.

"Ah, she knows nothing of this," she thought to herself. "She wasn't born in our faith." The queen said: "I'm glad that I can make so many people happy, just as I've made you happy, to-day."

"But you must be happy, too," said Walpurga. "Take my word for it--I'd put my hand in the fire as a pledge--there's nothing wrong with Irma. She's true, and so is the king."

The queen started convulsively. And had it come to this pass? Must she receive consolation from such a quarter? She sat there motionless, for some time. The clock struck twelve, and, at the same instant, bells were heard ringing from every tower filling the air with their merry sounds.

The child in the cradle began to mutter in its sleep. Walpurga made a sign to the queen and went on repeating the Lord's Prayer, in a firm voice. The queen moved her lips and silently joined in the prayer. When it was repeated for the third time, she said aloud: "And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.'" Then she knelt down by the child's cradle, and buried her face in the pillow.

Walpurga was filled with reverence for the mother who thus knelt silently at her child's cradle. She went on praying in a low voice. The queen arose, nodded to Walpurga, and waved both her hands to her. She looked almost like a spirit, and, without uttering another word, she left the room. The sound of the bells died on the air, and the child slept on quietly.