"If every thing is favorable, miladi," answered the doctor, "as I
hope it will be, you may be able to go in about a week. It will be a
risk, but you are so excited that I would rather have you go than
stay."

"A week! A week!" exclaimed Hilda, despairingly. "I can not wait so
long as that. No. I will go before then--or else I will die."

"If you go before a week," said the doctor, warningly, and with
evident anxiety, "you will risk your life."

"Very well then, I will risk my life," said Hilda. "What is life
worth now?" she murmured, with a moan of anguish. "I must and will go
on, if I die for it--and in three days."

The doctor made no reply. He saw her desperation, and perceived that
any remonstrance would be worse than useless. To keep such a resolute
and determined spirit chained here in a sick-chamber would be
impossible. She would chafe at the confinement so fiercely that a
renewal of the fever would be inevitable. She would have to be
allowed her own way. Most deeply did he commiserate this devoted
wife, and much did he wonder how it had happened that her husband had
gone off from her thus, at a time when he himself was threatened with
illness. And now, as before, those kindly German hearts in the hotel,
on learning this new outburst of conjugal love, felt a sympathy which
was beyond all expression. To none of them had there ever before been
known any thing approaching to so piteous a case as this.

The days passed. Hilda was avaricious about every new sign of
increasing strength. Her strong determination, her intense desire,
and her powerful will, at last triumphed over bodily pain and
weakness. It was as she said, and on the third day she managed to
drag herself from her bed and prepare for a fresh journey. In
preparation for this, however, she was compelled to have a maid to
accompany her, and she selected one of those who had been her
attendants, an honest, simple-hearted, affectionate German
girl--Gretchen by name, one who was just suited to her in her present
situation.

She made the journey without any misfortune. On reaching Baden she
had to be lifted into the cab. Driving to the Hotel Francais, she
reached it in a state of extreme prostration, and had to be carried
to her rooms. She asked for a letter. There was one for her. Gualtier
had not been neglectful, but had left a message. It was very much
like the last.

BADEN, HOTEL FRANCAIS, November 2, 1859.

"We leave for Munich to-day, and