er desire to weep. Her lover's image and the memory of the
happy moments which she had just experienced returned to her mind.
Besides, she must hasten to arrange her hair again, and--this time with
her own hands--change her clothing.

While she was loosening her golden tresses and gazing into the mirror,
her eyes again sparkled with joy. The greatest, the loftiest of
mortals loved her. She belonged to him, body and soul, and she had been
permitted to call him "her own."

At this thought she drew herself up still more haughtily in proud
self-consciousness, but, as her glance fell upon the image of the Virgin
above the priedieu, she again bowed her head.

Doubtless she desired to pray, but she could not.

She need confess nothing to the august Queen of Heaven. She knew that
she had neither sought nor desired what now burdened her heart so
heavily, and yet rendered her so infinitely happy. She had obeyed the
Emperor's summons in order to win approval and applause for her art,
and to afford the monarch a little pleasure and cheer, and, instead, the
love of the greatest of all men had flamed ardently from the earth, she
had left her whole heart with him, and given herself and all that was
in her into his power. Now he summoned her--the Holy Virgin knew this,
too--and she must obey, though the pure face yonder looked so grave and
threatening.

And for what boon could she beseech the Queen of Heaven?

What more had the woman, to whom the Emperor's heart belonged, to
desire?

The calmness of her soul was at an end, and not for all the kingdoms
Charles possessed would she have exchanged the tumult and turmoil in her
breast for the peace which she had enjoyed yesterday.

Obeying a defiant impulse, she turned from the benign face, and her
hands fairly flew as, still more violently agitated, she completed the
changes in her dress.

In unfastening the star, her lover's gift, she saw upon the gold at the
back Charles's motto, "Plus ultra!"

Barbara had known it before, but had not thought of it for a long time,
and a slight tremor ran through her frame as she said to herself that,
from early childhood, though unconsciously, it had been hers also.
Heaven--she knew it now--Fate destined them for each other.

Sighing heavily, she went at last, in a street dress, to open the
bow-window which looked upon Red Cock Street.

Barbara felt as if she had outgrown herself. The pathos which she had
often expressed in singing solemn