itting there alone, while her mother and her
child were out of doors, and that it was almost a crime to pass a
moment away from them.

She went into the kitchen. The grandmother, with the child on her arm,
was standing by the hearth in which there was a bright fire.

"Does my child eat broth?" asked Walpurga. Attracted by the voice, the
child stared at her; but, as soon as Walpurga fixed her glance upon it,
it nestled close to its grandmother, as if to hide itself.

"Yes, indeed. It eats anything, and is just like you. You did so, too.
It would like to take a spoon and help itself, but it can't find its
mouth. I'm making soup for you, you must eat something warm."

Walpurga's looks became more cheerful. The grandmother soon brought her
some soup. Walpurga ate it and said:

"Ah, mother; the first soup I eat at home. Nothing on earth tastes like
it. They can't make such soup as this at the palace."

The grandmother smiled, and stroked Walpurga's head with her hand, as
if blessing her. She felt that Walpurga's joy at being home again
affected her every thought and action.

"The home soup--yes, indeed," said she at last, and smiled; and, moved
thereto by the grandmother's cheerful looks, the child laughed, too.

BOOK IV.

CHAPTER I.

The soft glimmer of early dawn stole through the heart-shaped opening
in the shutters of their little room. Down by the reedy bank the
water-ousel piped its matin song. Walpurga awoke and listened to the
breathing of her husband and child. Her life, now, is a threefold
breath.

"Good-morrow, day. I'm home again," said she, softly. She felt so happy
at the thought of being in her own bed. Suddenly, she folded her hands
and said:

"I thank Thee, Lord! Now I know how it must be to wake in heaven and
feel as if home were reached at last, to have all your loved ones with
you, to know that parting's at an end, and that all will remain
together forever. Now we'll live happily, in kindness and in
righteousness. Grant us all good health, and put all evil away from
us."

She closed her eyes and indulged in retrospection. Last night the
grandmother had beckoned her to follow her into the little grassy
garden back of the house. When they reached there, her mother had said:
"Look up to those stars and tell me: Can you still kiss your husband
and your child, with pure lips? If--God forbid--it be otherwise--"

"Mo