t strangers also admired the magnificent development of this
rare child. The young mother saw in him something grander, more perfect
than the children of other human beings, even than the two boys whom she
had given her husband, although little John usually repulsed her
caresses.

In granting Barbara permission to see her child often, Frau Traut
transgressed an explicit command of the Emperor and, to prevent the evil
consequences which her sympathy might entail, she allowed the mother to
rejoice in the sight of her little son only once a month, and then always
for a short time.

During these interviews she was strictly forbidden to bestow even the
smallest gift upon the boy.

To-day John had voluntarily approached the stranger to whom he owed his
life, but whose passionate caresses at their first meeting had frightened
him, to show her the little wooden horse that Adrian had just given him.
This had made her happy, and on the way home the memory of her hidden
treasure more than once brought a joyous smile to her lips.

At home she first sought her children. Her husband, who had now been
appointed mustering officer, was on one of the journeys required by the
service, which rarely permitted him to remain long in his own house.

Barbara did not miss him; nay, she was happiest during his absence.

After glancing into the nursery, she retired to her quiet chamber, where
her harp stood and the lutes hung which often for hours supplied the
place of her lost voice, and sat down at her spinning wheel.

She turned it thoughtfully, but the thread broke, and her hands fell into
her lap. Her mind had again found the way to the house in the park and to
her John, her own, wonderful, imperial child, and lingered there until
from the next room the cry of an infant was heard and a woman's voice
singing it to sleep. Frau Lamperi, who had made herself a part of the
little household, and beheld in its master the incarnation of every manly
virtue, was lulling the baby to rest. Beside it slept another child, a
boy two years old. Both were hers, yet, though the infant raised its
voice still louder, she remained at the spinning wheel, dreaming on.

In this way, and while playing on the harp and the lutes, her solitude
was best endured. Her husband's journeys often led him through the whole
Netherlands and the valley of the Rhine as far as Strasbourg and Basle,
and her father had returned to Ratisbon.

She had found no new friends in Br