s neighbors.
The queen smiled at Walpurga's ignorance of the conditions of court
life, and explained to her that she could only have intercourse with
those who visited the palace. Walpurga was very sorry that she could
not bring about a meeting of the two ladies.

The queen retired.

"Now she's gone," said Walpurga. "I've said nothing at all; and I feel
as if I had ever so much to say to her." She felt as if she ought not
to leave the queen--as if she were her only true friend, a faithful
companion who, if others were to menace her queen with harm, would
hasten to her aid.

She thought of the time the queen had kissed her. How much they had
experienced together since that time. Could it be possible that it was
scarcely a year ago.

Cowering beside the cradle, she was silent for a long while. At last
she softly sang:

"My heart doth bear a burden,
And thou hast placed it there;
And I would warn e'en my life
That none doth heavier bear."

Her voice trembled with emotion. The child slept. She got up and told
Mademoiselle Kramer that she intended to take leave of all in the
palace. Mademoiselle Kramer dissuaded her from doing this. So Walpurga
only went in search of Countess Irma, but did not find her, as she had
gone to a party at her brother's house. Walpurga told the maid that she
intended to leave early the next morning, and that she would be very
sorry if she did not have a chance to say good-by. Meanwhile, she took
leave of the maid, and recommended her to take great care of the good
countess so that she might always keep well. Walpurga held out her hand
to the maid, but was obliged to draw it back again, for the latter had
both hands in the pockets of her silk apron, and, as if mocking
Walpurga, merely curtsied to her.

"The higher people are, the better they are," said Walpurga, when she
got back to her room. "The queen's the highest and best of them all."

Walpurga was sent for by Countess Brinkenstein, who was standing in the
same place and in the same position as when she had received the nurse,
nearly a year ago. She had seen this rigid lady almost every day. In
all that time she had not become more familiar, but had treated
Walpurga with unvarying kindness. It now seemed as if her disposition,
or perhaps her office, required her to dismiss Walpurga in a formal
manner.

"You have behaved well," said Countess Brinkenstein, with a