ied Eberhard Ludwig angrily in a loud tone. The
assembled persons turned in startled surprise. Osiander came forward.

'Your Highness's wife, the Duchess Johanna Elizabetha, is sick unto
death, and your Highness was not to be found for all our search,' he said
sternly, and without deigning to cast a glance upon Wilhelmine.

'What ails the Duchess?' asked Eberhard Ludwig, turning to Dr. Muerger.

'It would seem to be a stroke of blood to the brain, your Highness--a
dangerous thing to one of the Duchess's robust physique. Dr. Schubart is
occupied in bleeding her Highness. My assistance was dispensed with,' he
added in an offended tone.

At this moment the door of the Duchess's chamber opened, and Monsieur le
Docteur Schubart, first doctor to the court and a very pompous person,
appeared.

'I am relieved to be able to declare her Highness the Duchess to be
returned from her strange swoon. I have the honour to announce that her
Highness's cherished life will be spared to her devoted subjects.'

The man was odiously unctuous and self-satisfied. Madame de Stafforth
burst into weak weeping, while Osiander gravely offered his
congratulations to Eberhard Ludwig upon the recovery of 'his noble and
devoted wife.' There lay something of true dignity and sober goodness in
the Prelate's whole being which never failed to impress Wilhelmine, and
she felt his entire ignoring of her to be a heavy public reproof from a
competent judge. There was a moment's awkward silence when the Prelate
ceased speaking, and every eye was turned to the pair of handsome lovers
as they stood side by side, framed in the oaken panelling of the doorway
leading to the stairs. Madame de Ruth, who hated pauses, came forward and
held out her hand to Wilhelmine.

'My dear, I am glad to see you,' she said kindly.

Wilhelmine, whom Osiander's disapproval had irritated, replied calmly:
'Yes, I have returned, and to stay this time!' It was said defiantly.

Now it is well known that love makes the wisest of mankind foolish, and
that the poet in love is a perfectly unaccountable being. Eberhard Ludwig
was poet and lover, and he lost his head on this occasion.

'Returned to stay, dear lady, as long as my poor court can harbour and
amuse so fair a visitant!' he said; then, turning to Madame de Ruth, he
added in a lower tone, which was yet perfectly audible to most of the
assembled company: 'The rain-cloud brought back sunshine to us. A flash
of lightning carried