and Elizabeth
Christine, whom the world calls my wife, weeps in solitude over the
heavy chains which bind her. Not one of them loves me!--not one believes
in me, and in my future!"

The king, given up to these melancholy thoughts, did not hear a knock at
his door; it was now repeated, and so loudly, that he could not but hear
it. He hastened to the door and opened it. Winterfeldt was there, with a
sealed paper in his hand, which he gave to the king, begging him at the
same time to excuse this interruption.

"It is the best thing you could have done," said the king, entering his
room, and signing to the general to follow him. "I was in bad company,
with my own sorrowful thoughts, and it is good that you came to
dissipate them."

"This letter will know well how to do that," said Winterfeldt handing
him the packet; "a courier brought it to me from Berlin."

"Letters from my sister Wilhelmina, from Italy," said the king, joyfully
breaking the seal, and unfolding the papers.

There were several sheets of paper closely written, and between them
lay a small, white packet. The king kept the latter in his hand, and
commenced reading eagerly. As he read, the dark, stern expression
gradually left his countenance. His brow was smooth and calm, and a
soft, beautiful smile played about his lips. He finished the letter,
and throwing it hastily aside, tore open the package. In it was a
laurel-branch, covered with beautiful leaves, which looked as bright and
green as if they had just been cut. The king raised it, and looked at it
tenderly. "Ah, my friend," said he, with a beaming smile, "see how kind
Providence is to me! On this painful day she sends me a glorious token,
a laurel-branch. My sister gathered it for me on my birthday. Do you
know where, my friend? Bow your head, be all attention; for know that it
is a branch from the laurel-tree that grows upon Virgil's grave! Ah, my
friend, it seems to me as if the great and glorious spirits of the olden
ages were greeting me with this laurel which came from the grave of one
of their greatest poets. My sister sends it to me, accompanied by some
beautiful verses of her own. An old fable says that these laurels grew
spontaneously upon Virgil's grave, and that they are indestructible. May
this be a blessed omen for me! I greet you, Virgil's holy shadow! I bow
down before you, and kiss in all humility your ashes, which have been
turned into laurels!"

Thus speaking, the king bowed his