, bowing silently,
and her "Farewell, till we meet again!" fell from her lips with joyous
confidence.

While on the way she reflected, for the first time, what John could
desire of her for the "weal and woe of his life." It was impossible to
guess, yet whatever it might be she would not fail him.

But what could it be'

Neither during the long night journey nor by the light of day did she
find a satisfactory answer. True, she had not thought solely of her son's
entreaty. Her whole former life passed before her.

How much she had sinned and erred! But all that she had done for the man
to whom the posthorses were swiftly bearing her seemed to her free from
reproach and blameless. Every act and feeling which he had received from
her had been the best of which she was capable.

Not a day, scarcely an hour, had she forgotten him; for his sake she had
endured great anguish willingly, and, in spite of his mute reserve--she
could say so to herself--without any bitter feeling. How she had suffered
in parting from her child she alone knew. Fate had raised her son to the
summit of earthly grandeur and saved him from every clanger. Providence
had adorned him with its choicest gifts. When she thought of the last
account of him from the Duke of Ferdinandina, it seemed to her as if his
life had hitherto resembled a triumphal procession, a walk through
blooming gardens.

What could he mean by the "woe" after the "weal"?

John was to her the embodied fulfilment of the most ardent prayers. The
blessings she had besought for him, and for which she had placed her own
heart on the rack, had become his-glory and splendour, fame and honour.

She had not been able to give them to him, and undoubtedly he owed much
to his own powers and to the favour of his royal brother, but Barbara was
firmly convinced that her prayers had raised him to his present grandeur.

What more could now be given to him? Everything the human heart desires
was already his. His happiness was complete, and during recent years
this, too, had cheered her heart and restored her lost capacity for the
enjoyment of life. She had been carried to the very verge of recklessness
whenever bitter grief had oppressed her heart.

Her greatest sorrow had been that she was not permitted to see and
embrace him, and the knowledge that another filled the place in his heart
which belonged to her; but lesser troubles had also gnawed at her soul.

It had been especially hard to bea