When Walpurga came out to Hansei, he asked:

"Shall I go in, too?"

"No, we're ready."

"I think I ought to go to the king and queen. I've got a good deal to say to them."

"No; that won't do at all."

"Why not? I know how to talk to them."

He had frequently rehearsed what he intended to say to the king and queen. He would let them know that he deserved something more for giving up his wife for so long a time.

Walpurga found it difficult to make him understand that it would not do to press the matter. Hansei was not inclined to give up the point, and was, moreover, ashamed of confessing to the innkeeper that he had not sat at the same table with their majesties, and that he had not even seen them.

Walpurga, who herself needed support, was now obliged to make a double effort in order to pacify Hansei, who threatened to become rude and troublesome.

"But I may see your prince? You still have a right to take me there?" asked Hansei.

"Yes, yes," replied Walpurga, "that can be done." She, too, was herself glad to have a chance to see the child once more, and this would furnish a good excuse. "What matters it if Mademoiselle Kramer or Frau von Gerloff make sport of Hansei? Day after to-morrow all these people will be nothing to me, and I shall be nothing to them." Her cheeks glowed with excitement, while she hurriedly led Hansei toward the prince's apartments. She was met at the door by Mademoiselle Kramer, who, when Walpurga stated her wish, answered:

"No; it can't be done. You must not go in again. Doctor Gunther is there and the child is crying and screaming terribly. Go; in God's name, go."

Mademoiselle Kramer disappeared, closing the door after her. Walpurga heard the child cry, and was not allowed to go in and help it. She was shut out--thrust out of doors. Shame at the treatment she had received in Hansei's presence, and anger at these cruel, ungrateful people struggled within her. At last, she said:

"Come, Hansei; we mustn't demean ourselves."

"Of course not," said Hansei. "It's plain enough that this is the way they treat folks when they have no further need for them."

"Nor do we need them any more. Thank God, that's over," said Walpurga.

She left the palace in an angry mood, and Hansei muttered to himself that he would thrash the first man he met on the way.

They returned to the inn where the chests had been left. They met Baum there, and Hansei again said:

"I'd swear that he's no one but Zenza's Jangerl."

"Jangerl's in America," insisted Walpurga. "I beg of you, don't trouble yourself about other matters. Let's hurry and get away from here."

"I've arranged to stay for another day. I'd like to see the sights, and would like to go to the theater for once in my life, and then--"

"Some other time--I want to get home to my child."

"You've been away so long that you needn't mind waiting a day longer."

Walpurga insisted and Hansei was obliged to yield.

"Why do you always look at me?" asked Hansei. "It seems as if you scarcely know me any more."

"I'd forgotten what true, blue eyes you have."

"Well, and so I've been so little in your thoughts that you didn't even remember how I look."

"Be quiet; I thought of you always. What sort of eyes has the child?"

"Bright and clear ones, and there's never been anything the matter with them."

Walpurga wanted to know what color its eyes were, and whether their color had changed, as had been the case with the prince. But Hansei did not know, and was quite vexed that his wife asked him questions about matters that he knew nothing of.

At last they mounted the wagon.

It drove by the palace, and, in spite of the rattling of the wheels over the stones, it seemed to Walpurga as if she could hear the prince crying.

"I, too, must wean myself," said Walpurga, weeping silently.

As soon as they had passed the city gates, Hansei began abusing the court. "They might have sent us home in a coach; but that's the way with them. They'd rather fetch our wives than take 'em back again." Whenever he said anything, he would look about as if his boon companions were present to nod their approval. "They might have let us have a pair of horses at least; indeed, they ought to have told us to keep them, for they've got more than they know what to do with, in the royal stables," said he.

Walpurga had so often told every one that her husband was coming to take her home in a wagon, that no arrangements had been made for that purpose; and now when Hansei grumbled at their want of consideration, she remembered her mistake and, without confessing it, endeavored to quiet him.

"I beg you, for all the world," said she, "don't say anything against the court. They can't help it. If the king or queen knew of these things, they'd gladly do everything. But you've no idea how little the queen knows of the world; of what costs money, of what has to be bought, or earned, or paid, she has no notion at all. She's just like the angels. They can't count money any more than she can, and have nothing to do with it. She's as dear as an angel, too. She takes the words out of your heart, and gives you such good ones in return." When she stopped and found that Hansei made no reply, she bit her lips with vexation. How she would have been praised if she had uttered such remarks to Countess Irma or Mademoiselle Kramer. But he behaved as if what she had said were nothing at all. A feeling of discontent struggled within her, but she repressed it. "Yes, I, too, must get used to the change," thought she to herself. "It's all over. Where I'm going, they'll not make much of everything I say." For a long while she was silent. She felt that looking into life-size double-mirrors was now at end. At last she thought of what the queen had told her: "When you get home, be patient with your people. The way to have peace on earth is to be patient with one another, and to do good to others without hope of recompense. Those who look for no reward are repaid sevenfold." When she left home her mother had given her a piece of bread, with which to deaden her homesickness while at the palace, but the queen had given her words and thoughts that were as bread, for they, too, were life sustaining and, moreover, long-enduring.

It seemed as if a ray from the queen's sunny nature rested upon Walpurga's countenance. She regained her composure, and calm and gentle thoughts now filled her mind. Suddenly she seized her husband's hand and said:

"Now, God be praised, we hold fast to each other again. You must have lots of patience with me. I've been among strangers, but you'll soon see that I'll be all right again at home."

"Yes, yes, it's all right," said Hansei.

Wherever they alighted by the way, Hansei would tell the folk at the inn:

"This is my wife: she's been nurse to the crown prince, and now, thank God, we're well to do."

He had become boastful, but Walpurga remained silent in the presence of others. It was only when they were in the wagon that she became talkative. She asked many questions and Hansei had much to relate, but she heard little of what was said. She was forever thinking of her child, which seemed to be dancing on the mountain peaks; just like the moon which stood in the sky in broad daylight, it ever seemed to move along with them.

"And has it blue eyes?" asked she suddenly, while Hansei was giving her a circumstantial account of the cow that was again giving milk.

"I don't know what color the calf's eyes are," said Hansei, laughing.

"Oh, don't think hard of me. I can't think of anything but our child. If we traveled as fast as my thoughts, we'd be home in a twinkling, as tailor Schneck says."

She smiled and checked herself and, soon after, continued: "Oh, how could I ever have stayed away from you so long? It isn't true. I've always been at home and now I'm coming. I'm coming to you, my child. Didn't you hear some one cry, Hansei?" said she, looking round. "I hear some one crying; it sounds like a child."

"Do be quiet. You're enough to frighten one out of his senses."

Walpurga would often look back, for it seemed to her as if she could hear a child crying.

In the city a child was crying, and those who were about it could not quiet it. Their diamonds, their gold, their soldiers, were all of no avail. Behind her and before her, Walpurga heard nothing but the crying of a child.

"Why do you shut your eyes?" asked Hansei.

"Oh," replied Walpurga, "I feel like the father of Wastl the weaver. When he was cured of his blindness, he used to say that the trees came toward him, and that everything blinded him. I too, feel as if I had seen nothing during this whole time. Look! there's the first man with a green hat, and he has his game-bag on his back; and the trees have kept on growing of themselves, while I was away. I don't know how I'll go through it all and not die, for I shouldn't like to die just now. I want to walk about with my child. Oh dear, good Hansei, don't give her a stepmother."

"Wife, wife," said Hansei, quieting her, "you're making fools of both of us. I'm quite sure that comes of your not having eaten a thing all day."

He insisted upon stopping at the next inn, where Walpurga was obliged to drink some wine. There was, indeed, wine in her chest, that is, the six bottles with silver foil, which the doctor had sent. But she wished to take that to her mother.

Although it was in broad daylight, Walpurga fell asleep in the wagon. When she awoke, she silently took her husband's hand in hers and held it for a long while. In the last little town this side of their village, they stopped again, in spite of Walpurga's protests. Hansei asserted that the grandmother did not expect them before the next day, and that they would find nothing to eat at home. He ordered a bounteous meal, as if he were laying in a supply for several days. Walpurga fell to heartily, and at last they quite forgot themselves, for Doctor Kumpan entered the inn. He was quite affable toward Walpurga and drank heartily with Hansei. He then called him aside and enjoined him to treat his wife considerately.

When they at last got into the wagon, half of the town had gathered about the inn, in order to have a look at the crown prince's nurse. Doctor Kumpan ordered the postillion, who was not in uniform, to take his post-horn with him, and the handsome, dark-eyed, lively fellow blew his horn while they drove through the little town and along the road. The merry echoes resounded from the mountains and through the forests. Walpurga was almost ashamed to drive in this style, while the people were at work along the road; but Hansei felt a childish delight in the sound of the horn.

At last they caught a glimpse of the lake. Evening was already setting in.

"Those are swallows from home," said Walpurga. "The next village is ours. I see the church, and--hark! I hear the bells! I hear them with you, my child, and soon you'll hear them, in my arms; and your voice--your voice--coachman, drive faster; no, drive gently; drive just as you please, so that we don't upset. Stop here; we'll get out now. Stop! I tell you." She alighted, but as soon as she had done so, she exclaimed: "No, I'll get in again. We'll get home sooner if we ride. But why don't mother and the child come out to meet me?"

"She thinks we won't be home till to-morrow," cried Hansei.

"Then maybe she isn't at home at all, and has gone off with the child to visit some neighbor."

"Maybe so; but I think not."

"Don't you see a child there, running across the road? Is that it? Is it?"

"No, that's not our child. It can't run yet; but it can crawl about like a young dog."

"Who cut down the willow?" suddenly asked Walpurga.

"It was blown down by the storm, last spring."

Walpurga asked questions, but heeded not what she asked nor the answers she received. "Just see, how clear the brook is, and how swiftly it flows. I think it never used to flow so quickly. And they've built a new house here, and there they've felled the trees, and, just look at the beautiful little water-wagtails. They're larger and more beautiful with us than anywhere else."

They met a boy on a gray mare which he was riding to water. "That's Grubersepp's Waldl. How stout he's growing!"

"And it's a good beginning, that the first one to meet us should be a boy," said Hansei. "Waldl!" he called out to the lad, "come over to our house this evening and I'll give you some cherries." The boy made no reply and rode on.

"The two cows grazing there near the little girl, are ours," said Hansei.

Everything comes; everything except the mother and the child.

"Mother's at home," cried Walpurga, suddenly. "Mother's at home. I see smoke rising from our chimney; and there she stands by the fire with the child on her arms. Oh mother! Oh child! How is it possible that you don't notice anything? I'm coming! I'm here! I'm home! I'm coming!"

The wagon stopped before the house.

"Mother! Child!" cried Walpurga from the depths of her heart. The mother came out of the house, with the child on her arm.

Walpurga embraced her mother and kissed her child, but it cried and would not go to her.

Walpurga went into the room and sat down beside the stove. Her hands were folded on her lap, and she was weeping. She looked about her as if she were in a strange world.

"Leave her to herself for a little while; give her a breathing spell," said the grandmother to Hansei, who had gone out of the house, and who, with the driver's assistance, had been unloading the chests.

It was but a short time that Walpurga remained in the room, a prey to sad thoughts. The sun stood high over the opposite mountains, its rays making every blade of grass in the garden glitter like burnished gold. The mountains in the west were all aglow with light, and those opposite were reflected half-way across the lake. The day had been one of great excitement to Walpurga. What she had hoped for was now realized. There was nothing more to come. She felt as if she must start off again, as if she must be up and doing. And then it suddenly occurred to her that it was wrong to remain sitting there alone, while her mother and her child were out of doors, and that it was almost a crime to pass a moment away from them.

She went into the kitchen. The grandmother, with the child on her arm, was standing by the hearth in which there was a bright fire.

"Does my child eat broth?" asked Walpurga. Attracted by the voice, the child stared at her; but, as soon as Walpurga fixed her glance upon it, it nestled close to its grandmother, as if to hide itself.

"Yes, indeed. It eats anything, and is just like you. You did so, too. It would like to take a spoon and help itself, but it can't find its mouth. I'm making soup for you, you must eat something warm."

Walpurga's looks became more cheerful. The grandmother soon brought her some soup. Walpurga ate it and said:

"Ah, mother; the first soup I eat at home. Nothing on earth tastes like it. They can't make such soup as this at the palace."

The grandmother smiled, and stroked Walpurga's head with her hand, as if blessing her. She felt that Walpurga's joy at being home again affected her every thought and action.

"The home soup--yes, indeed," said she at last, and smiled; and, moved thereto by the grandmother's cheerful looks, the child laughed, too.