allen.

If one could die in that way, thought Irma to herself, sinking back on
the moss, and weeping.

She arose. A storm-laden cloud had once more arisen within her soul,
but it was for the last time. About her, all was clear and sunny. Hail
and storm and lightning were forgotten. She went back to the hut, and
often turned to look at the sun sinking in the west. And now, for the
first time, she repaired to rest before nightfall. She was shivering
with a fever-chill, and soon her cheeks were hot and red. She called
the little pitchman to her bedside and asked him to give her a sheet of
paper. Her hand trembled, while she wrote in pencil:

"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."

She told the little pitchman to hurry to town, to give this paper to
the great doctor in person, and to conduct him to her at once. Then she
turned away and was calm again.

"I'll give you something good," said the little pitchman, while, with
broad-brimmed hat on his head, and mountain-staff in his hand, he stood
before her. "You'll see, It'll do you good. I'll lay the kid down here
at your feet; that'll do both o' you good. Shall I?"

Irma nodded assent.

The little pitchman did as he said he would. The kid looked up sleepily
at Irma, and she smiled on it in return. Both soon closed their eyes.

Wandering in the dark, the little pitchman descended into the valley.

CHAPTER XVI.

Down in the valley, it had been raining all day long. What had been
hail and thunder up among the mountains, had turned to rain, and
occasional gleams of blue sky served to show that there was fair
weather above.

Toward evening, the storm cleared away. The queen, accompanied by the
ladies of her court, among whom Madame Gunther and Paula were now
included, was sitting in the large music-room, the doors of which were
open. Paula had been singing to the queen, for the first time, and, on
account of her embarrassment, Madame Gunther begged that she might not
be asked to sing again that day.

The relation between the queen and Madame Gunther was a peculiar one.
The queen was charmed with her sincerity and thoroughness, but she
found it difficult to accustom herself to the presence of one who was
so independent of her. She was, at one time, tempted to regard this as
pettiness, for, on the very day that Madame Gunther had accepted the
breastpin, she had said to the queen: "Your Majesty, it will never do,
unless you accep