wer and grace. She
neither thrust herself forward nor shunned observation. The knowledge
that she was in her own home lent charming confidence to her
deportment.

During the evening, Gunther's blind nephew, whose appointment as
pianist to the queen had been confirmed, played in a masterly manner.

On the following morning he took his first leave of absence, in order,
as he said with a smile, to look about the neighborhood and visit old
acquaintances.

The king prepared to go hunting.

CHAPTER XIV.

It was in the morning. Gundel was telling her father how strange cousin
Irmgard was. She hardly ever spoke a word; she tasted scarcely anything
but a little milk, fresh from the cow: and she seemed so strange. She
would lie for hours out on the cliff where she could get a glimpse of
the distant lake. The little pitchman was also puzzled by Irma's
behavior. For some time past she had done no work, and had given up
going with him when he went out to gather herbs.

"I'd like to ask the great doctor down there--the one I fetch the herbs
for--what I ought to do," said he, "but Walpurga says I shan't. Besides
that, I don't see that there's anything the matter with our Irmgard. I
thought of trying something, but I don't know whether it would do any
good with a human being. Now if a beast gets sick, all you've got to do
is to cut out the sod that he's lying on and turn it, and then the
beast will get well again. I wish I knew whether that would help a
human being."

"Oh father!" replied Gundel, "that's awful. I'm afraid they'll soon put
the sod on our dear Irmgard. She's so good; and when you speak to her
it seems as if she has to stop to think of what you're saying, and make
up her mind what to answer."

Thus they talked together, and then separated to go about their work
for the day, while Irma lay on her blue rug, now looking out at the
wide world, now closing her eyes and thinking and dreaming to herself.
Her life was a voiceless calm, as if she were part of the animate and
inanimate world about her; as if she always had been and ever would
remain here: a child of man, to whom no flower, no living thing on
earth, nor bird soaring in the air was unknown. The mountains, the
clouds, the bright day, the starry night--all were dear and familiar to
her.

Irma, as was her wont, was lying on the mossy slope. She gazed into the
distance, and then her eyes sought the ground to watch the bus