queens must bear their children in pain and
sorrow, just like the rest of us; no one can save them from that."

The queen made no reply, and looked out of the other side of the
carriage.

Countess Brinkenstein motioned Walpurga to be silent; for, while it was
difficult to induce her to talk, when she had once begun, she did not
know when to stop.

The queen was only silent because she wished to say something in
French, to Countess Brinkenstein, and had refrained from doing so on
account of Walpurga's precious admonition.

"My dear child," said the queen at last, "I would, gladly, give up
everything, if I knew that I could thereby render mankind happy and
contented. But what good would it do! Money wouldn't help the people,
and it is not we who have brought about this inequality. God has
ordained it thus."

Walpurga could easily have answered her, but thought it best to leave
something for the morrow; for her father had often said: "It isn't well
to catch all the fish in one day." She therefore remained silent.

The queen felt greatly constrained by her promise not to speak French
in Walpurga's presence. There was much that she desired to say and with
which the peasant woman had no concern.

"How beautiful! how lovely is the world," she murmured to herself, and
then closed her eyes, as if fatigued with the splendor which had opened
before them, after her long seclusion. And while she lay there, her
head thrown back on the cushion, she looked like a sleeping angel, so
peaceful, so tender, as if mother and child in one.

"The soft cushions almost make me think I am sitting on clouds," said
Walpurga, when they reached their journey's end.

She was unspeakably happy in the country. The broad prospect, the clear
skies, the mountains, the large and beautiful garden with its
comfortable seats, the fountains, the swans--all delighted her. There
was also a fine dairy-farm, about a quarter of a mile distant, where
the cow-stable was much finer than the dancing floor at the Chamois
inn.

Walpurga was out in the open air during the greater part of the day.
The queen lived for her child alone, and Walpurga was again talkative
and natural. All the affected ways that she had acquired while in the
city, had left her.

In her first letter home--she could now write for herself--she said:
"If I only had you here for one day, to tell you about everything; for,
if the sky were nothing but paper and our lake nothing but ink, I