not in words, at all events
by his example. I would have liked to see you and him together. Your
presence must have restored his faith in humanity. You are a messenger
of goodness, and since you are good, you believe in the virtue of
others."

"Where I have once felt respect and love," replied Bronnen, "I am
unchangeable. I should like to write to your father at an early day. I
should love, dear Countess, to send him the best of news, and in the
best words that language affords. Countess Irma, I long to tell him--"

"My dear friend," interposed Irma, "I am, like my father, of a solitary
nature. I thank you. You do not know how greatly your visit and all
that you have told me, has benefited me. I thank you with all my heart.
Let us remain friends. Give me your hand as a pledge. Let us remain
friends, just as we have been. I thank you--"

Her voice was choked with tears.

The colonel took his leave. Irma was alone. She lay kneeling near the
sofa. Her heart was filled with unutterable sorrow. The coxcomb had
rejected her. Then came a man worthy of the best of wives. He loved and
trusted her, and she had refused him. His kind and honest heart had a
right to ask for full, unbounded love. She shook off the mingled
feeling of distress and mortification. The thought that she had acted
honorably, soothed her and seemed like refreshing dew to her whirling
brain. But then, again, it galled her when she asked herself: "How far
have you sunk, that you are obliged to make a show of simple honesty?
And where lives the girl who, if not bound by love, has a right to
reject the man whom you have just refused? He cannot but esteem you and
your love."

She knew not how long she lay there. She laughed and wept, lamented and
rejoiced.

Her maid entered. It was time to dress for dinner.

CHAPTER XII.

The queen was ill. Her life was saved, but a hope was lost.

It was on a stormy morning in spring, that Baum, caring a little coffin
that contained the corpse of a still-born babe, descended the back
stairs of the palace. He walked so softly that he did not hear his own
footsteps. He was followed by Madame Leoni, the queen's waiting-woman,
who held a white handkerchief to her eyes. At the foot of the stairs, a
carriage was in waiting. Baum was obliged to tell the coachman, who was
not in court livery, where to drive to. Scarcely any one in the palace
knew of what was going on.

They drove out o