eprivation.

*

And now for the last halting-place.

We wandered on in the direction of the summer palace. We walked up and
down before the park railing. Up by the chapel, and under the weeping
ash, I could see the court ladies sitting on the ornamented chairs and
busy with their embroidery. Ah, there is many a one there, no better
than I am, and yet she jests and laughs, is happy and respected. Aye,
there lies the misery. We are constantly blunting our moral sense and
saying to ourselves: "Look about you; others are no better than you
are."

Presently they all arose and bowed profoundly. The gates were opened
and the queen drove out, the prince sitting beside her. She looked at
me and the little pitchman, and greeted us. My eyes failed me.

I know not. Did I see aright? The queen looked cheerful.

The prince has become a fine boy. He has kept the promise of his
infancy.

My little pitchman conversed with a stone-breaker, who was working on
the road. He was loud in his praises of the queen and her only child,
the crown prince. So she has only one child--

I was so weary that I was obliged to rest by the wayside. In former
days, I had so often proudly passed by the spot where I was now
sitting. No matter! It is well that it is so. The little pitchman was
delighted when I told him that our path now lay homeward. He must have
felt quite alarmed about me, and must have thought to himself: "The
folks who say that you're not quite right, were not so far out after
all."

*

Those who see me not, think me dead; those who do see me, think me
crazed.

I had determined that, in case of discovery, I would tell all to the
king and queen, and, after that, quietly return to my retreat.

It is better thus.

*

We returned home. When I reached the foot of the mountain on which we
live, and had begun to ascend it, I asked myself: "Is this your home?"
And yet, absence makes it seem like a new home. The life I lead here is
a real life.

Since I have noted down this thought, I feel as if a weight were lifted
from my heart. While writing, I often feel as giddy as if standing on
the edge of a precipice; but I shall remain firm. I will not look at
these pages again. But now work begins once more, and my head will
cease to be filled with thoughts of repentance. The next minute is
ours; the passing moment is scarcely so;