t a present from me in return," saying which, she gave
the queen a handsomely bound book, which a brother of hers, a physician
residing in America, had written, on the subject of slavery. The queen
accepted it with thanks, and Madame Gunther felt quite relieved,
although it frequently cost her an effort to translate, as it were, all
that she wished to say, in order to clothe it in the proper court
costume, for she took a pride in rejecting prescribed forms.

The queen inquired why they saw so little of the elder daughter, the
professor's widow. Madame Gunther replied that, as Bronnen and their
nephew were visiting them, and as there was much to look after in the
house, Cornelia had gladly assumed these duties. It always seemed like
a new truth to the queen, or like tidings from some strange world, to
find that the daily wants of life required special attention and did
not provide for themselves.

The weather exerted a depressing influence on the spirits of all. Here
in the country, and especially in this little dairy-farm, where they
missed many comforts, and where, on account of the small amount of
room, they were prevented from scattering and seeking various
diversions, the effects of the weather were all the more noticeable and
unpleasant.

Their delight in anticipation of the morrow was all the greater, as it
promised to be a bright day.

It was agreed that they should all meet, at dinner, near the second
waterfall, and that the king would join them there.

The king was in his cabinet, engaged with Bronnen. The new telegraph
was carrying many messages to and fro. Gunther, the intendant, Sixtus
and several other gentlemen were smoking their cigars and walking under
the drooping trees of the avenue, which the evening sun was now
lighting up with a thousand brilliant hues.

The ladies in the music-room maintained that the Alpine glow
(Alpengluehen) could be seen that day. They naturally expected to see it
daily, although it is an exceedingly rare phenomenon.

The night had come on, and the king was sitting at the card-table, with
Gunther and two of the gentlemen-in-waiting.

A servant came in and informed Gunther that there was a man outside
who wished to speak with him at once. Gunther gave his cards to the
ever-obliging intendant, and went out where, leaning on his great
Alpine staff, his broad-brimmed, crumpled hat in his hand, and his rug
thrown over him, stood the little pitchman. He kept his left hand in