turn to court.

When Baum set out with the letters, his face wore a triumphant
expression. He was now on the point of gaining the great prize. He had
been intrusted with a delicate commission, and he knew what he was
about. He felt that they appreciated him, and that he understood them.
He looked back toward the palace. The submissive air had vanished.
Stroking his chest with his right hand, and holding the left up to his
lips, he said to himself; "I shall return as a made man; I shall be
lord chamberlain at least."

Baum arrived at the manor-house. The maid told him that Irma would
receive no one.

"If she only had a good cry; her silent grief will kill her."

He knocked at Irma's door. It was long before an answer came. At last
she asked what was the matter, and when she recognized Baum's voice,
she was obliged to support herself from falling, by holding on to the
latch of the door. "Had the king come, too?" she asked herself.

Baum said that he had come as a courier to deliver a letter from their
majesties. Irma opened the door just far enough to enable her to put
out her hand. She took the large letter and laid it on the table. There
was nothing that she cared to learn from the world, nor could it offer
her any consolation. No one could. At last, toward evening, she drew
back the curtains and broke the seal of the large envelope. There were
two letters in it; one in the queen's handwriting, the other in the
king's. She opened the queen's letter first, and read:

"_My dear, good Irma_";

(It was the first time that the queen had written so affectionately.
Irma wiped her face with her handkerchief and went on reading.)

"You have experienced life's greatest affliction. Would that I were
with you, to press your throbbing heart to mine, and to kiss away your
tears. I shall not attempt to console you, but can only say that I
sympathize with you as far as it is possible to sympathize with griefs
one has not yet know. You are strong and noble, and I cannot help
appealing to you" (Irma's hand trembled) "to think of yourself and to
bear your grief purely and nobly. You are orphaned, but the world must
not be a desert void to you. There are still hearts that beat with
friendship for you. I am glad--that is to say--I thank fate that I am
able to be of some help to you in your sorrow. I need not assure you of
my friendship for you, and yet, at such moments, it does one good to
tell one's self so. I do not care to spe