egay on your hat, and then we'll row over the lake together, and
I'll give you a kiss, and then I'll bid you good-by."

The child laughed heartily, while Walpurga looked into his eyes and
spoke to him thus. Then it laid its little head on her cheek, and
Walpurga cried out:

"Mademoiselle Kramer! Mademoiselle Kramer! he knows how to kiss
already: he's kissing me now. Yes, you're the right sort of a man and a
king's son to boot; they always begin betimes."

It seemed as if she wanted to make known all the love she had for the
child during the few days that yet remained to her at the palace, and
she did this both from affection and spite, for she desired to show the
Frenchwoman how very much she and the child loved one another. He would
never grow to love the foreigner as much as he loved Walpurga, and then
she would sing:

"Standing by yon willow tree,
Scarcely weeping, thou dost see
My bark put off from shore.

"As long as willows grow,
As long as waters flow,
Thou'lt see me nevermore."

While she sang, the boy crowed and laughed, and Walpurga protested to
Mademoiselle Kramer, that she would wager her head he understood
everything already.

"And besides," said she, with an angry glance at the Frenchwoman, "the
language that little children speak is the same all the world over.
Isn't it so? The French don't come into the world speaking gibberish."
Then she would sing and dance about, and kiss the child again. It
seemed as if she must repress all her sadness, and, in one outburst,
give vent to all her joy.

"You excite the child too much; you will do it harm," said Mademoiselle
Kramer, endeavoring to quiet her.

"That won't harm him; he's got the right stuff in him. No Frenchwoman
can spoil him."

Walpurga was in a restless and contradictory mood. She had long known
that the tie would be broken, and had often wished and hoped for that
end. But now when the moment of separation approached, all painful
memories vanished. She felt that she could never again live alone. She
would always miss something, even the trouble and excitement; and,
besides, everything had always come all right again. She felt hurt,
moreover, that the others seemed so indifferent about her leaving them.
And the child--why hadn't it sense enough to speak and say: "Father and
mother, you mustn't do this; you mustn't take my Walpurga away