As Madame von Stork had told Hans, her family had taken refuge in Memel when the news came that Napoleon, having conquered the King at Jena, would advance upon Berlin.

Old Major Joachim von Stork had welcomed his brother's family into his great empty house in Memel, and in the safety of a new nest the Mother Stork had gathered beneath her wings all her startled, frightened brood, but two sons who had gone against Napoleon.

Bettina nearly laughed aloud when she saw the old Major. He was stout, and red-faced, and wore a stock as high as three inches. On each side of his head were four curls, frizzled and powdered, as they once wore hair in the army, and his pig-tail boasted a huge cockade.

Bettina heard him talking one day with his housekeeper about his stocks:

"They must be exactly three inches high," he ordered, "exactly, my dear Frau, and as to my cockade, are you quite certain that it is large enough?"

And he looked very anxiously at his housekeeper, who held up her hands.

"Gracious, Herr Major," she said, "it is immense."

But the Major, puffing a little, looked offended.

"Immense, my dear woman, what on earth are you talking of? Why Captain von Schallenfels of my regiment had always seventy or eighty ells of ribbons on his queue. Fact, I assure you," added the indignant old gentleman. "It trailed so on the ground that he was forced to tuck it into his coat pocket when on parade. True, my dear woman, true, I assure you."

The old Major, however, was kindness itself, though he went his way just the same as if his house was still empty. And this way was to have his meals to himself and, at four o'clock each day, to depart to the house of one Monsieur von Schrotter, and, with six other Memel gentlemen, drink beer, smoke, and discuss the army, Prussia, or Napoleon, until bedtime.

His wife, Bettina learned, had died many years before and he had but one son.

"Our cousin, Rudolph," Carl told her. "He is with my brother Wolf in the army."

In the evening all the family gathered in the sitting-room and there Bettina saw everybody.

First, there was the Professor, tall, kind-looking and very fond of his wife and children. He still wore his hair in a pig-tail and not brushed forward like the King, and he liked silver buckles on his shoes, and a stock, but not high like that of his brother.

"And our father knows, oh, everything," the twins told Bettina, "so much that our Queen used to send for him in Berlin to talk to her. He has read, oh, all the books in the world."

Madame von Stork was as kind-looking as her husband, but she was stout, and her skin was pink and white like a girl's, and she wore her hair very high, and on top of its rolls one of the huge turbans then the fashion. Sometimes she seemed quite like a large hen, clucking about her children, her feathers ruffling if a thing went wrong with any one of them.

Especially was she troubled about her pretty daughter Marianne.

"And no wonder," Bettina heard her telling the Major's housekeeper, Frau Winkel. "She is a girl, and yet is the one most like her dear father. She must always be at her books, and I cannot make her care for her embroidery, her tent stitch, nor the cooking. And what good is a German girl who cares for none of these things? Who will marry her, my dear Frau Winkel? She is fourteen, and most girls are married at fifteen or sixteen. Pauline, now, is entirely different. When there are clothes to be mended, her fingers assist me. When the children are noisy, she can quiet even Carl. It is she who makes the puddings, and if she has a spare moment she is busy over her embroidery; a true house-wife by nature, and French, too," added Madame von Stork, as if the two things were impossible. Perhaps it was Pauline's troubles which had subdued her. Before the flight from Berlin, Marianne had known nothing but joy and petting, but Pauline had a history as sad as Bettina.

One day, many years before the days of Memel, an old Frenchman had appeared at the "Stork's Nest" in Berlin.

Though his hair was white, his shoulders bowed with trouble, and his clothes worn and poor, the Professor recognised him as a once very elegant-looking servant of a French nobleman whom he had known well in Paris. He led by the hand a little girl of eight or nine.

"My master and mistress lost their heads in the Revolution," the man explained, "but I escaped to Berlin with Mademoiselle Pauline."

Then he told of his dangers and all they had endured.

"Monsieur," he said, "I am old, poor, and alone. What shall I do with a fine young lady?"

Madame von Stork's quick eye had been studying the child. The sadness of the pale little face, the neatness of the black dress, the daintiness of the Marie Antoinette kerchief warmed her heart to the homeless little girl.

She looked at her husband, a question in her kind grey eyes.

He nodded, and so Pauline came to the shelter of the "Nest," which so kindly welcomed Bettina also.

And now Pauline was like Madame von Stork's own child, and, since she was noble and hated the French Republic, and loved her poor King, she, too, had no good for Napoleon and, like the Prussians, hoped to see him conquered.

"And what I should do without Pauline, Heaven only knows," Madame von Stork was often saying, "my own Marianne being so useless."

Marianne might be useless, but Bettina thought her almost as pretty as the Queen, in her short-waisted dress, her puffed sleeves, her long mitts and her lovely curling hair tied in place with a snood of blue ribbon.

When they all came to the sitting-room in the evening Bettina would arrange her stool quite near the "gracious FrÄulein Mariechen," and, while she knitted away, she used to gaze up shyly at her pretty neighbour and make up stories about the Prince who would one day come and marry her.

"Pauline's worth ten of her," Otto was always saying. He was nearly sixteen and was always wanting someone to do things for him, and, "Marianne," he said, "is so stupid. Pauline can mend a fellow's things in a minute."

But Elsa and Ilse, the twins, who were so alike only their mother seemed always to know which was which, and Carl preferred Marianne.

"She can tell you stories," they told Bettina.

As for Marianne herself, sometimes she was quite unhappy. She wanted to be useful, but she did so love to read, and then she forgot. And house work and cooking were not amusing.

Madame von Stork had little good for idleness.

"It is German," she always said, "to work. Even our good Queen is never idle. I have seen a handkerchief she herself embroidered, Marianne, with beautiful flower designs and a crown in gold placed in one corner."

Settling herself with a huge bundle of mending, she with her keen eyes would inspect the family group each evening.

"Come, now, Marianne, no reading," she would say. "You do not know what to do? Nonsense. There is your tent stitch. Pauline? Yes, yes, you of course are busy. Ilse, Elsa? Bettina? Knitting, that's good. Carl? You are a boy? What foolishness. Get your pencils and drawing book. You don't like that? Very well then. Let Otto bring you the silhouettes that Mademoiselle von Appen began in Berlin, and you can cut others. But, Otto, first fix the lamp. There, where the light can fall on your father's book. There, that is good."

Her eyes travelled from needle to scissors, from pencil to work.

"There, there," she said, her face beaming, "we are a busy German family. Begin now, dear husband, we are all quite ready to hear your book."

The father of the family often read aloud to them in the evenings. But the books he read were not such as children would even look at to-day.

Bettina and Marianne, the twins, Carl and the others all listened, on those long, cold Memel evenings, to grown-up histories, to romances, or sometimes to plays or poems, very long and very serious.

Now and then the Professor would talk, not read, and then Bettina loved it. He told of the new Republic across the sea, America, which had fought a great war and was now free and independent, and there were stories of the great men called Washington and Franklin, and of all the excitement when they had signed a treaty of peace in Paris.

"I was young then," said the Professor, "and in HelsingÖr, and there was much talk of a new life beginning for the world with the Declaration of Independence,—you must read it, Otto,—and the ships and the harbour were gaily decorated and cannon were fired and we all drank to the health of this new Republic at a fine party given to celebrate the birth of Liberty. And they raised the American flag and lit bonfires, and heavens, children, but there was hurrahing!"

And he told of a great Englishman, named Nelson, who had conquered Napoleon at Trafalgar, and of the Revolution in France, and all that in his day had happened. But often he read, and sometimes Bettina's little head fell to nodding. One night she was almost asleep when the Professor's voice stopped suddenly.

"Richard," interrupted his wife, and her tone was furious, "see our Marianne."

Bettina dropped her knitting and stared. So did the twins, and Carl stopped cutting. What had Marianne done? Her cheeks were quite crimson and one hand held something under the table cover.

"My Heavens, Richard, think of it! Let me see it, Marianne. Obey me."

Never had Madame von Stork spoken so severely. The twins nearly fell from their chairs. Carl opened his mouth, and his eyes stared at Marianne. Pauline never looked up once from her embroidery. Bettina's knitting needles shook in her hands.

"She's been reading under the table cover," announced Otto with the superior air boys wore in those days with their sisters. "It's the 'Sorrow of Werther.' I see the cover."

Such a thing had never happened in the "Stork's Nest."

The father's face grew stern, and anger made even his neck red to the roots of his queue.

"Marianne," he began, when the maid opening the door announced:

"His Excellency, Herr Doctor Hufeland, and the gracious Herr Brandt."

A great cry of "Ludwig!" "Cousin Ludwig!" welcomed the entrance of a tall, handsome man of perhaps thirty-five, with a serious face and English features. He was dressed in one of the long-tailed coats then the fashion, coming down to the top of his high, spurred boots. His hair was brushed forward, and within the high collars of his coat appeared a soft lawn stock. The other gentleman Bettina at once recognised as the physician who had been with the Queen on the road from Memel.

"We call him 'Cousin Ludwig,'" whispered Elsa. "He was betrothed to our Aunt Erna who died."

"He won't speak French," whispered Isle; "he says Germans should not imitate the French people as upper-class people do, but should speak their own language."

Bettina was glad of this, for often she had to sit for hours without understanding a word, unless the twins explained things.

There was much to talk about.

Madame von Stork bustled from the room to give orders for refreshments, and while she was gone, Herr Brandt, who had settled himself near Pauline, explained that he had come over from KÖnigsberg.

"I was with Baron von Stein," he added. "We escaped from Berlin with the royal treasure and arrived in KÖnigsberg at Christmas time. Since then I have been at Dantzic."

Bettina opened her little ears. Dantzic was a great, free city of Germany, around which was the army of Napoleon. Its people were holding out bravely and it was hoped that Napoleon would withdraw.

"But the city is bound to fall," said Ludwig. "All who can are escaping."

That dreadful Emperor! Bettina seemed to see him on his white horse before the gate of the brave old city.

When Madame von Stork returned, the maid followed her with cake and wine.

"God be thanked, gentlemen," she said, "our brother Joachim has a full cellar and as yet we have something to offer our visitors."

Pauline and Marianne served the guests, one, dark and handsome in a red dress trimmed with bands of fur, her arms and neck like ivory, her dark hair arranged in curls tied back with ribbon, the other, golden-haired and pink-cheeked, in a gown of blue, her curls tied back also with ribbon, the ends of her narrow sash floating about as she moved in her quick, merry way. As they ate and drank, Dr. Hufeland told his old friends all the sad things which had happened to the Queen because of Napoleon. He described her flight from Jena, relating how she rode through the lovely Harz Mountains to Brunswick and from there went to Magdeberg.

"And all the time, dear Madame," the doctor turned to Madame von Stork, "our poor lady had no idea of how the battle had gone, nor did she hear a word of the fate of the King. The Countess von Voss tells me that for courage she has never seen her equal. The Queen held fast her hand and all through that dreadful flight, with the fear of Napoleon behind her, she repeated over and over texts which had words to sustain her."

"What were they, dear Doctor?"

"From the eighth chapter of Romans, dear Madame," said the Doctor, consulting a little note book.

"Marianne," commanded her father, "fetch the Bible. Let us hear what words gave comfort to our Queen."

Marianne tripped across the room and returned in a moment with a Bible which she laid before her father.

All listening, he found the place and read aloud:

"The Spirit helpeth our infirmities, for we know not what we should pray for.

"We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or peril, or sword?

"Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Jesus Christ our Lord."

"Our good Angel," murmured Madame von Stork, wiping her eyes.

"Ach, ja," said the Doctor, "she had much to endure, poor lady."

Then he related how, tired to death herself, she had tried to encourage the soldiers at Magdeburg, and of how in dread and trembling she had driven across the flat country towards Berlin, and at last had entered the old city of Brandenburg.

"It was by the old stone, Roland," continued the Doctor, "that a courier stopped her with the news. 'Majesty,' he said, 'all is lost! Everything!' Then the Queen, seizing the papers from his hands, read the awful news, her figure trembling like a leaf! 'The battle was lost at Jena. The King has been defeated at AuerstÄdt. Napoleon is making on Berlin. Your Majesty must fly with the Royal children.'"

Bettina's tears fell as the Doctor's voice faltered. The Mother of the Nest wiped her eyes on her embroidered handkerchief and the gentlemen and Otto blew their noses. Marianne sobbed.

"And our Queen," went on the Doctor, "turned like a child to the old Countess. She has been to her like a mother, you know. 'Voss, dear Voss,' she said, 'my poor, poor husband.' Then she forced back her tears. 'Dear Voss,' and she clung to her hand. 'I must go at once to my children.'"

Then the Doctor told of how her carriage had dashed into Berlin to find the city a scene of wild confusion. The people, deceived by early news of a victory, were now driven into panic by the disaster at Jena. When the Queen entered they were pouring through the city gates in flight.

"Napoleon is coming! Napoleon! Napoleon!" was the cry which everywhere met her ear.

"It was terrible," put in the Professor. "I had to pay a fortune for the travelling carriages which brought us to Memel."

"But the Queen," the Doctor continued, "found only disappointment at the palace. Springing to the ground, she cried: 'My children!' to the attendant."

"But they were gone," interrupted Otto, "they left before we did. Their tutor took them to Swert-on-Oder."

The Doctor nodded, while the Professor frowned at Otto for his rudeness.

"Her Majesty," resumed the Doctor, "sent at once for me. When I saw her I started in amazement. Her dress was travel-stained and crumpled, her hair in wild disorder, her face wet with tears. Never had I before seen her any way than very neat and smiling. She held out her hands. Oh, dear Madame, it brought tears to my eyes. 'I must fly to my children,' she cried, 'and you must go with me.' Then, just as fast as we could, we proceeded to Swert, leaving things just as they were in the palace."

"A great pity, too," put in Herr Brandt, whose ways were most orderly. "For Napoleon, as we all know, found the Queen's letters to her husband, read what he pleased, and published all that might injure her."

"The monster!" cried Madame von Stork, motioning Marianne to fill the Doctor's glass and pass the cake to Herr Brandt.

"Thank you, many thanks," and the visitor smiled at Marianne and went on with his talk.

"The meeting, dear friends, between our dear Queen and her children was most heartrending. The poor little things had been torn from their play in the palace, hurried into the travelling carriage and borne away with very little idea of what had happened. When they heard that their mother, whom they adore, had arrived, they rushed with cries of joy to meet her. Even the baby Alexandrina, holding the hand of little Prince William. But when they saw their mother, her face all wet with tears, her dress so tumbled and with such a wild look in her eyes, the poor little things started back in fright. The baby set up a wail, and even the Crown Prince looked frightened."

"Poor things," murmured Madame von Stork, her handkerchief again to her eyes.

"'My poor children! my poor children!' cried the Queen. Truly," and the Doctor gazed from the faces of Elsa, Ilse, and Bettina to the grown ones, "it was a pitiful thing to see the frightened little faces. Our Queen, ashamed that she had frightened them, put her own feelings entirely aside and thought only of them! 'Come with me, my darlings,' she said, and taking the baby she led the way to her room. When she had removed her wraps, she gathered them all around her. 'Fritz, Willy,' she said to the two older boys, 'stand before me. Charlotte, Carl, sit one on each side. I will hold the baby. Listen now, and I will tell you why your mother comes to you thus in tears. My dear, dear children,' I have written down every one of her words in my diary," explained the Doctor, reading from his little book, "'We have suffered a great and terrible defeat. Your poor, unhappy father and all the soldiers of Frederick the Great, your famous uncle, have been defeated in two terrible battles, one fought at Jena, the other at the same moment at AuerstÄdt.'"

Then the Doctor told how she related the news of that dreadful October, and told of her journey and the flight to Berlin. And she spoke so simply that even little Carl had an idea of all the trouble.

"My darlings," and she gathered Carl and Charlotte in her arms, "you see me in tears. I weep for the destruction of our army, for the death of relatives and of many faithful friends."

The older boys wiped their eyes, and Carl began to sob, for his lively Cousin Louis Ferdinand, who always brought him toys and had a joke ready, was dead, too, his mother had told him.

"Fritz, Willy," the Queen turned to them, speaking only to them, "my dear, dear sons, you see an edifice which two great men built up in a century, destroyed in a day; there is now no Prussian army, no Prussian empire, no national pride: all has vanished like the smoke which hid our misery on the fields of Jena and AuerstÄdt. Oh, my sons, my dear little children, you are already of an age when you can understand these unhappy things. In a future age when your mother is no more, recall this unhappy hour. Weep again in your memories my tears, remember how I in this dreadful moment wept for the downfall of my Fatherland."

Then she described to them the glorious death of their cousin, Prince Louis Ferdinand, and again addressed the little princes especially.

"But do not be content, little sons, with tears. Bring out, develop your own powers, grow great in them, Fritz, Willy. Perhaps the guardian angel of Prussia gazes on you now. Free, then, your people from this humiliation which overpowers it. Seek to shake off France as your grandfather, the Great Elector, did Sweden. Do not forget, my sons, these times. Be men and heroes worthy of the names of Princes and grandsons of Frederick the Great, and for Prussia's sake be willing to confront death as Louis Ferdinand encountered it."

The fire which thrilled her voice caught the souls of the two boys and their eyes glowed with excitement.

"We promise, dear mother," said the Crown Prince, and both boys kissed her. "We promise," said little William.

Then the Queen being so tired sent the children from her, and attendants appeared from Berlin, couriers arrived with despatches, and Count Hardenburg, the Prime Minister, waited on Queen Louise with news of the King.

His Majesty, he assured her, was safe and sent word that the Queen and the children must go at once to Stettin.

On the twentieth they arrived in that strong town, and the Queen said good-bye to her children.

"Go, darlings," she told them, "with our Voss to Dantzic. Mother will join father at Custrin."

Then she held them a moment one by one in her arms and begged them to be good and to pray always for their country.

"Auf wiedersehen, darlings, as soon as possible you will see both your dear father and your mother."

Then they had separated, the Countess Voss and the children going towards the Baltic, the Queen joining her husband in the strong old fortified town where he was then in hiding.

But something very annoying happened to the Queen at Stettin.

There she had been promised fresh horses. She waited and waited and none were brought forth. At last it was discovered that all the horses had been turned into the field after her arrival, and that she must go on to the King with her tired one.

"It was the work of that villain, Napoleon. All believe that everywhere," put in Ludwig.

When Dr. Hufeland had finished his story, Ludwig Brandt told of the entrance of Napoleon into Berlin; how he came in a splendid procession with flags flying and trumpets sounding.

"But the Berliners, watching him from the windows, wept," he added, his face glowing.

Then he related how Napoleon had said all manner of things against the Queen, and of how surprised he was when he first beheld her portrait at Potsdam. "I had no idea that she looked like that," he said, and began to ask questions about her and listened attentively to all the praise which on every side was given her.

But, however much he was interested, it did not prevent his accusing her of having caused the war, before an assembly of Berliners he called to discuss matters. Only one of these Prussians had courage to defend the Queen. He was an old clergyman named Erman.

Up he stood and looked Napoleon straight in the eye.

"Sire," he said, "that is not true."

Not a soul believed that he would escape with his life, but he did.

"Perhaps," said the Professor, "Napoleon respected one brave man among such a group of cowards."

Before the Doctor could reply, a thundering knock at the door made all stop and look at each other in consternation.