In the winter Marianne had gone often to court. There was much need of lint and the ladies were always occupying themselves with making it.

The old Countess, who had known Marianne's grandmother well in her youth, made a pet of the pretty girl, and the ladies and gentlemen found her bright talk very amusing as they worked away in the rooms of the Mistress of Court Ceremonies, or in those of the Queen.

But Wolfgang's death changed everything.

"I shall never be gay again," wept poor Marianne.

At first she was for staying in her room and writing out her sorrow, but one day the Queen, whom she adored, had a talk with her.

What she said no one knew, but from that day Marianne began to think of others. And certainly there was need of patience in the "Stork's Nest." So much trouble made them all nervous, and the children, not having Madame von Stork's eye upon them, grew cross and very restless.

And the affairs of Prussia were in as bad a way as possible. After the disaster at Friedland on the 14th of June, Marshal Soult entered KÖnigsberg, the King and the Czar fled to Tilsit, and the country waited to see now what would happen. Talk of peace began to be heard in all quarters.

"But let us not despair," said Ludwig Brandt to the Professor. "Prussia is conquered, but all through our land a spirit is rising against Napoleon. Stein and our best generals, our orators, our poets declare that the tyrant must be overcome and their burning words are stirring the people. BlÜcher, for instance, Richard, has declared that when a whole people are resolved to emancipate themselves from foreign domination they will never fail to succeed. I foresee that fortune will not always favour the Emperor," he said, "the time may come when Europe in a body, humiliated by his exactions, exhausted by his depredations, will rise up in arms against him. Then," Ludwig's face changed, "there is the enthusiasm in our Universities."

The Professor nodded.

Before, however, he could answer, in came poor Madame von Stork, her face full of fresh trouble.

"Richard," she said, "Ludwig, have either of you seen Otto?"

Both shook their heads and went on with their talk.

"Bettina!" called the lady.

In tripped the little girl, her face eager and interested.

"Dear child," asked Madame von Stork, "have you seen Otto?"

Bettina thought that he had gone to Frau Argelander's to see the Crown Prince, who had a room there.

"No, no," said Pauline, who came in at the moment, "Carl went alone. The Royal children wished to roast potatoes and Otto said that was too childish."

Dusk came, and no Otto.

"Carl, Carl," his mother cried when at last he returned with the servant, "where is your brother Otto?"

Carl's face flushed.

"He told me not to tell until bedtime."

"You must," cried his mother.

Carl brought a dirty little note from his pocket and handed it to his father.

When the Professor read it he grew white to the lips.

"The foolish, foolish boy," he said, "why could he not have asked me?"

The frightened family cried out for news of what had happened.

When Madame von Stork heard it she was distracted.

Otto had run away. He was sixteen now, and he had gone to fight against Napoleon. So he wrote his father.

"I did not tell you or mother," he said, "because you would have prevented me. But my country needs me. Ask Cousin Ludwig."

The Professor tried to comfort his wife. He told her that peace must be made in a month, that Otto could do nothing, but still she wept on.

By morning she was so ill that the Professor brought a doctor.

"Nervous fever," he said, "brought on by this climate and worry."

"I will nurse mother," cried Marianne, her heart all full of a new desire to be helpful.

"Nonsense," said her father. "Pauline is much more reliable. No, no, Mariechen, I couldn't trust you," and he left the room.

"It is my mother. I love her. It is my right!" burst our Marianne, her cheeks crimson.

But Madame von Stork decided it.

"I should go crazy with you, Marianne," she said. "You would be reading when I needed my medicine. I am sorry, dear child," she smiled to soften the lesson, "but I am nervous, very nervous, and I must have a thoughtful person. Pauline, you know, remembers."

Marianne rushed to her room. In a flood of bitter tears she flung herself on her couch. There in rows on their shelves stood her books. How she hated them!

Seizing one, she flew to the kitchen, her cheeks blazing. In a rage she opened the door of the stove. She thrust in "The Sorrows of Werther." With a blaze it ascended on the air of Memel in smoke, the maid staring in wonder. Marianne tore back to her room. She flung herself face downward on her couch.

"It is my mother, not Pauline's," she sobbed, and she wept for an hour.

Worn out at last, she rose to bathe her face in cold water.

On her chest of drawers stood a little picture that a lady of the court had given to her.

Marianne started. A flush dyed her face as she gazed into the blue eyes of the Queen. She who loved books above all things, put them aside without a word if the King, if the Royal children, if the ladies wanted her. She was never well, but was always helping others, always forgetting what she wanted, what pleased her, that she might do her duty.

"Dear Marianne," again the girl heard her voice as it had soothed her after the death of her brother Wolfgang, "there is no trouble in which the dear God will not help us."

All the demons of self and anger and dislike of Pauline ceased to struggle in Marianne, as she remembered. She would be good, she had promised Queen Louisa. She hesitated a moment, then she bowed her head and whispered a little prayer that the dear God would help her and make her good like the Queen who so loved Him.

Then she went below, all worn out with her battle, but quiet and humble and wishing to help her mother.

And certainly there was need of her.

Carl and Ilse and Elsa were quarrelling violently, Bettina with frightened face struggling to quiet them. She had on her little apron and had brought dishes to try and set the table for supper. Marianne's face flushed. Pauline was above, nursing her mother, Bettina below, trying to quiet the children and get supper for the Professor, and she, the daughter of the "Stork's Nest," had been in her room in a temper. She took the dishes from Bettina and she separated Carl and the twins. For an hour she sat with them telling them stories. Then her eye fell on a volume of Goethe lying on a table where her father had left it.

A half hour later the Professor opened the door. His face darkened.

"Marianne," he said, "I expected better things of you."

With a start the girl laid down her book. Carl and Ilse were squabbling over the last piece of cake on the table, Elsa was looking at a valuable book with sticky fingers, the clock had stopped for want of winding, and Bettina had vanished into the garden.

Marianne flushed hotly.

"I am trying, father," she said, "very——"

Without a word he left the room, his face stern with displeasure.

Putting the book aside, Marianne wound the clock, she sent the children to bed, and sought Bettina in the garden.

"I will do better," she promised herself, and next day she remembered much better.

But it was hard to keep the children quiet in the evening. She told all the stories she could think of, and they only clamoured for more.

One evening a bright thought struck her.

She ran to her room and came back with a fat, red book whose brass clasp she unlocked with a tiny key.

"Now, Ilse and Elsa," she said, "get your tent-stitch. Bettina, I would not knit. Work on that strip for a bed-spread. Carlchen, draw some pictures and I will read you a lovely book about our Queen."

Then she told them that their Aunt Erna, who had died when she was sixteen, had written it and it would give them a story of how happy the Queen was before Napoleon came into Prussia.

Then she arranged the candles, and all settled to listen.

The Professor, passing through the room, this time smiled on Marianne.

"Where are the children, Richard? What are they doing?" cried nervous Madame von Stork as he opened the door of her room.

When he told her, the worry faded from her poor ill face.

"God be praised, dear husband," she said, "that our Marianne is improving. It was hard to refuse her the nursing, but I hoped the lesson might rouse her, and I was right."

Then, smiling at her husband, she sank back on her pillow and soon was enjoying her first restful sleep.