The king had returned from the baths. He was received with great ceremony, but he and the queen soon withdrew from the company and repaired to the crown prince's apartments. The parents, clasping hands, stood by the cradle of the sleeping child. Their glances rested upon each other and then upon the prince.

"Can there be a higher joy than thus to behold the babe whose life belongs to and is a part of our own?" softly whispered the queen.

The king embraced her.

The child awoke; his cheeks were glowing, his eyes were bright.

In the mean while, Walpurga had been sitting in a corner, weeping silently; but now she was obliged to go to the child. The king left; the queen remained with her.

"You've been crying?" asked the queen.

"It was for joy, nothing but joy. Could anything be more beautiful than the way you stood together there?"

"I'll have your husband come to you," replied the queen; "write him to come, and say that your mother and child may come too."

"Yes, dear queen, it would be very nice, but it would cost a pretty penny." Surprised that any one was obliged to deny himself a pleasure, because of the expense, the queen looked up and said:

"Go to the paymaster and get the money. Would a hundred florins be enough?"

"Oh! More than enough! But if the queen would give me the money, we could make better use of it."

The queen looked at Walpurga, as if shocked to think that, even in simple hearts, avarice can destroy the noblest emotions.

Walpurga observed the change in the queen's expression and said:

"I'll tell you, honestly, why I don't want it, even if it cost nothing. My husband's a good man, but he's just a little bit awkward, and it would grieve him to the heart if any one were to laugh at him. And it would be too much to expect of mother, for she's over sixty years old, and hasn't been out of the village since her wedding-day--that is, not farther than Hohenheiligen, three miles from our place, where she went on a pilgrimage. Though it would only be a day's journey, she hasn't even once gone home in all that time; and so I think it might do her harm if she were taken anywhere else, even it were only for a few days. The best thing would be if we could all of us remain near the king. I'm sure we'd take good care of the dairy-farm. My husband knows all about cattle; he was cowboy for many years, and, afterward, herdsman on the mountain meadows."

Walpurga spoke as if the queen knew all about the plan, but the queen was so possessed with the thought of her domestic happiness, that she did not hear a word of what was said.

Days passed by, and Walpurga, who had received none of the traveling money that the queen had promised her, did not venture to ask the court paymaster for it. Desirous of showing Baum that she was still on friendly terms with him, she told him what had happened.

"The best thing you can do," said he, with a shrewd air, "is not to take so small a gift. If you do, they'll think they've done with you; don't lose sight of the main chance, and that's the farm."

Walpurga was sincerely grateful to Baum. It was very fortunate, she thought, to have a friend at the palace, who, while the king was yet a prince, had traveled with him through Italy and France, and who knew how one ought to deal with such high folk.

The palace seemed to have thrown off its tranquil ways of the last few weeks. All was life and bustle. Sounds of laughter and of song could be heard from early morn until late at night. Gay colored lamps hung from the trees and, at night, the sparkling lights seemed, in the distance, as if part of a fairy-scene.

Early in the morning, wagons laden with provisions could be seen going hither and thither. To-day, the court would dine on some wooded height; to-morrow, in a ravine, or near a waterfall.

The king was all kindness and attention to his wife, and the queen had never seemed more lovely in his eyes, than now, elevated as she was by maternal happiness and conjugal affection.

In the apartments occupied by Walpurga and Mademoiselle Kramer, none of this bustle of preparation or departure was heard. They simply knew that "all had gone off, for the day."

In the morning, while the day was still young, and in the evening, while the soft dews were falling, the king and queen, arm in arm, might often have been seen sauntering in the park, and at such times the ladies and gentlemen would remain near the palace.

One evening, while the king and queen were thus walking together, engaged in familiar conversation, the queen said:

"How delightful it is to be thus leaning on your arm; to close one's eyes and be led by you. You can't imagine what good it does me."

Although the king expressed himself delighted with her devotion, an inner voice told him that such sensibility was unqueenly. How differently--

No, he would not permit himself to think of it.

The queen had much to tell him of the gradual dawning of sense in the prince. He listened attentively, but rather through politeness than sympathy. After the first week, the queen excused herself from taking part in the frequent excursions, for she found no pleasure in all the bustle.

The queen had Walpurga and the child with her, either in the park or on the rising ground behind the palace, where she would sketch groups of trees, the lake and the swans, the castle, the chapel, and various distant views.

One morning, while at breakfast, the king said:

"What charming rivalry it was when you and Countess Irma were drawing together. Your dispositions were both illustrated by the way in which you treated the same subjects."

"Yes, we often remarked that. Perhaps I worked in the details more correctly and sharply, while Countess Irma sketched with far greater ease and freedom. I greatly miss the dear countess."

"Then let us write to her and tell her that she must return, and that at once. Let us send her a joint letter. Ladies and gentleman, we shall now, all of us, write a letter to Countess Irma."

"Order the writing materials to be brought," said he to one of the gentlemen in waiting. His request was speedily complied with and he wrote:

"Beautiful Countess! Fugitive bird! At last I know what bird you are:--The wild dove. Does this contradiction describe you? Wild, and yet a dove? Come, do come to us; your forest companions hang their heads because of your absence. Hasten to us, on wings of song."

The king offered the sheet to the queen and said: "What will you write?"

"I can't write when any one is present," replied the queen. "I can't write a word now; I shall send her a separate letter."

An almost imperceptible expression of displeasure passed over the king's countenance, but he subdued it.

"As you please," said he courteously, although, at heart, angry at this everlasting sentimentalism.

The courtiers and ladies all wrote, each adding a few lines of a light, jesting character.

Countess Brinkenstein, however, had slipped away.

Amid jests and laughter, the whole sheet was at last filled, and then the king said:

"The chief one is still missing. Walpurga must also write to the countess, for the voice of the people has most influence with her. Send Walpurga here."

Baum was at once sent to bring Walpurga. On the way, he explained to her what was going on. Walpurga was not shy, in the midst of the assembled court.

"Would you rather be alone in your room while you write?" asked the king, betraying his vexation, in spite of himself.

"I'll write wherever you want me to, but I can't do it well."

Walpurga seated herself and wrote:

"If your noble father will allow it, I shall be heartily glad when my dear Countess Irma is here again. My heart longs for her.

"Walpurga Andermatten."

The king, having read it, said: "Write also--'it will do me and the prince much good to have you here again. You make us both happier'."

"Dear king," said Walpurga, "how clever you are. What you say is quite true. Now be so kind as to dictate it to me. I can't put it into such good words, but I can write quite well from dictation. I learned it from Mademoiselle Kramer. I used to know how at school, but forgot it afterward."

"No," replied the king, "write as your feelings prompt you. Ladies and gentlemen, let us leave Walpurga alone, and go to the veranda."

Walpurga was sitting alone, in the great breakfast-room, biting the end of her pen and vainly endeavoring to remember the king's words. Suddenly she heard a slight noise near her and, looking up, saw Baum who was standing in the doorway.

"Come here," she exclaimed, "you can help me, for you must have heard it all."

"Certainly," replied Baum and dictated the king's words to Walpurga. She went out and handed the letter to the king.

He praised her for having put the words so nicely. She was about to say that Baum had helped her, but one need not tell everything, and why not receive praise for what might have been?

When Walpurga returned to her room, she smiled at her own shrewdness. The king would now surely give her the farm, for he had seen that she could write down everything and could keep accounts.

The queen came into the garden with her hastily written note.

It was unsealed. She gave it to the king saying:

"Will you read it?"

"It isn't necessary," said the king, closing the letter.

After the letter was written there was endless tittering among the court ladies. They chirruped and chattered and teased each other, and hopped about like a flock of sparrows that have just discovered an open sack of corn. They soon scattered, and ladies who at other times could not endure each other were now good friends and, arm in arm, would walk up and down the park, while others would stand gathered in little groups. All seemed loth to separate. They had so much to tell each other that none seemed willing to leave. They all spoke kindly of Irma. Every one was still her best friend, but, nevertheless, careful to leave a loophole of escape open, for things might change.

Within a few days, a great change had come over the feelings of all at the summer palace. The king and queen had, at first, greeted each other as if newly married, as if unspeakably happy; but, soon afterward, came the first distinct sense of uncongeniality which, in a word, betokened that the king wearied of the queen. He did full justice to her noble and exalted appearance. Her every word and thought was an outgush of purest emotion. But this exaltation of feeling, which, to an every-day world, appears strange and incomprehensible and yet exacts constant consideration for its peculiarities; this endeavor to give intense and exhaustive thought to every casual subject; this utter absence of all cheerful or sportive traits; this cathedral-like solemnity of character; this constant dwelling on the heights: though beautiful and engaging at times, had become monotonous and distasteful to the king. The queen's conversation lacked that sparkling effervescence which, though it be only for a moment, charms and animates the listener.

The king who was fond of change, delighted in what was sportive, capricious, or enigmatical in character, and in the conquering of difficulties.

The remembrance of Irma supplied all that he missed in the queen. He felt sure of his faithful love for his wife, but admired the frank and lovely disposition of Irma, and why should he not, therefore, enjoy her society?

"She will come and remain with us, and bring new and fresh life with her," thought he to himself when he saw the courier who bore the letter to Irma, hurrying along the road.

In the afternoon, the king and queen drove out together; he sat at her side and held the reins. Their only attendants were the two grooms who followed on horseback.

The king was quite amiable; the queen happy. He felt inwardly conscious of having, in ever so slight a degree, swerved from the right path, and this made him doubly affectionate. With a frank gaze, he looked into the brightly beaming eyes of his beautiful wife.

Thus should it ever be. Thus, purely and frankly, shouldst thou ever be able to look into those eyes.