ile,
drinking in the freshness and revelling in the solitude; then she
entered the wood and walked onward, her feet sinking deep into the rich
moss. She inhaled the delicious smell of the beech-trees, that light
odour of the northern forest which is almost imperceptible, and yet so
fresh, so pungent. It is made up of the smell of earth, of moss, of fern,
of grass and leaves, and the resinous health of young pine. As Wilhelmine
walked, she whispered a melody half in greeting to the trees, half
mechanically. She found a shallow bank, and, seating herself on the
ground, she supported her shoulders against the slope. She leaned her
head back and gazed up into Spring's wonderful tracery in the myriad
beech-leaves, and the cool green fell like balsam on her eyes. A breeze
stirred the tree-tops, and for a moment they swayed and leaned together
whisperingly, then, like little children playing at some gentle teasing
game, they drew back as the breeze passed.

Wilhelmine's thoughts wandered to Eberhard Ludwig; of a truth they knew
the way, for how often had they sought his memory since that night in the
castle garden? She pondered how she had been told his Highness loved to
sleep in the forest. 'Ridiculous poet-fellow' he had called himself. She
drew a deep breath. 'Au revoir, Philomele,' he had said. Ah! but he had
forgotten her! Madame de Ruth had been mistaken! The campaign was not
won. Wilhelmine's cheeks glowed suddenly, she crushed a leaf of an
overhanging beech-branch; it was intolerable. All those people would
ridicule her! Leaning her head in her hand, she pressed her fingers
against her eyes to shut out the sunlight, but it lingered in her
eyeballs, and against the blackness she saw dancing rays of blinding
light. A feeling of delightful drowsiness was coming over her--a far-away
feeling. Presently she raised her head from her hands, and once more
contemplated the peaceful wood. What did she care for those people who
would mock her? She would return their malevolent stares with her evil
look, which she knew would be eminently disagreeable to them. Her
thoughts turned back to Guestrow now--Guestrow and Monsieur Gabriel. Almost
unconsciously, as she thought of her old friend, she found herself
humming an air. At first she but whispered it under her breath, then she
was gradually carried away by the physical enjoyment of letting forth her
powerful voice, and she burst into full song:

'Bois epais redouble ton ombre,