if it never could do any harm. Over
by the stream, the lightning struck a tree and split it in two, and
places where it used to be dry are covered with water. If I didn't feel
it in every bone of my body, and couldn't see it, I'd hardly believe
there had ever been a storm. But we were lucky, after all. None of the
cattle were hurt, and the cowboy is here, too. He crept away, down the
valley, where there was no storm at all."

It was a clear, bracing morning. Here and there, there were still some
large hailstones lying in the crevices of the rocks. The cows were
grazing on the meadow, and the cowboy was singing merrily. He was proud
that the goats were the best judges of the weather; while grazing, they
had moved down toward the valley, and that was the surest sign that a
storm was brewing.

At noon, Franz came up from the farm. The torrents of water that had
rushed down into the valley, had led them to suppose that something had
happened, and Walpurga had sent Franz to find out all about it. The
hot, midday sun soon dried up everything, and the waters did not long
remain on the heights. Irma went out to her favorite resting-place and,
spreading her blue rug on the ground, lay down.

Suddenly, she heard the sounds of a bugle horn. What was it? Was it
royalty, or a dream?

The sounds were repeated. Irma's heart beat violently. Something drew
near. She could hear it panting, as it forced its way through the
crackling brush. She looked up and saw a stag rushing through the
clearing near by, and the huntsmen pursuing and gaining upon it. Irma
passed her hand over her eyes--she looked once more-- It was the king
and his suite.

Springing from his horse, the chief piqueur exclaimed: "The stag broke
through here. Your Majesty. Here is the trail." He dipped his finger in
the blood and showed it to the king. The king looked around--did he
feel the glance directed upon him from the thicket? The glance that had
once made him so happy, but that had, for him, been so long
extinguished? He missed his stirrup; the horse reared wildly. Irma bent
down, with her face against the mossy turf. She felt as if the whole
hunt, as if all the horses' hoofs, were passing over her. She bit the
grass on which she lay. She dug her hands into the earth. She feared to
shriek aloud.

When she got up, all was quiet. She stared about her. Had it been a
dream? In the distance, she heard the report of a gun and the sound of
the bugle. The stag had f