glowing coals, and murmured broken,
disconnected words. From time to time a mocking smile trembled on her
lips, then heavy sighs wrung her breast. Was she perhaps telling the
fire of the flames which raged within her bosom? Was she perhaps a
magician, who understood the language of these mysterious tongues of
flame, and answered their burning questions? The hasty opening of the
door aroused her from her dreams, and a page entered and announced in a
loud voice--"His majesty the king!"

Amelia bowed her head, and advanced slowly and with a stern countenance
to meet the king, who now appeared at the threshold.

"May I enter, my sister, or do you command me to withdraw?" said
Frederick, smiling.

"The king has no permission to ask," said Amelia, earnestly; "he is
everywhere lord and master. The doors of all other prisons open before
him, and so also do mine."

Frederick nodded to the page to leave the room and close the door, then
advanced eagerly to meet his sister. Giving her his hands he led her to
the divan, and seated himself beside her.

"You regard me then as a kind of jailer?" he said, in a gentle, loving
voice.

"Can a king be any thing but a jailer?" she said, roughly. "Those who
displease him, he arrests and casts into prison, and not one of his
subjects can be sure that he will not one day displease him."

"You, at least, my sister, have not this to fear, and yet you have just
called this your prison."

"It is a prison, sire."

"And am I, then, your jailer?"

"No, sire, life is my jailer."

"You are right, there, Amelia. Life is the universal jailer, from whom
death alone can release us. The world is a great prison, and only fools
think themselves free. But we are involuntarily commencing an earnest,
philosophical conversation. I come to you to rest, to refresh myself; to
converse harmlessly and cheerfully, as in our earlier and happier days.
Tell me something, dear sister, of your life, your occupations, and your
friends?"

"That is easily done, and requires but few words," said Amelia,
hoarsely. "Of my life I have already told you all that can be said. Life
is my jailer, and I look longingly to death, who alone can release me.
As to my well-being, there is nothing to say; all is evil, only evil
continually. My occupations are monotonous, I am ever asleep. Night and
day I sleep and dream; and why should I awake? I have nothing to hope,
nothing to do. I am a superfluous piece of furniture in this