er, he stepped close up to the king, his hands resting upon his
hips. "Your majesty," cried he, with a menacing tone, "will you give me
my ball or not?"

The king now looked up at the prince, who regarded him in an insolent,
questioning manner. A smile, mild as the evening sunset, spread over
the king's face; he laid his hand lovingly upon the curly head of the
prince, saying: "They will never take away Silesia from you. Here is
your shuttlecock." He drew it from his pocket, and gave it to the little
prince, who seized his hand and pressed it to his lips.

CHAPTER IV. THE DRIVE TO BERLIN.

Wilhelmine Enke passed the remainder of the day, after her meeting with
the king, in anguish and tears. She recalled all that he had said to
her, every word of which pierced her to the heart. Her little daughter
of seven years tried in vain to win a smile from her mamma with her
gentle caresses. In vain she begged her to sing to her and smile as
she was wont to do. The mother, usually so kind and affectionate, would
today free herself from her child, and sent her away with quivering lip,
and tears in her eyes, to listen to her nurse's stories.

Once alone, Wilhelmine paced her room with rapid strides and folded
arms, giving vent to her repressed anguish. She reviewed her life, with
all its changing scenes. It was a sad, searching retrospection, but
in it she found consolation and excuse for herself. She thought of her
childhood; she saw the gloomy dwelling where she had lived with her
parents, brothers, and sisters. She recalled the need and the want of
those years--the sickly, complaining, but busy mother; the foolish,
wicked father, who never ceased his constant exercise of the bugle,
except to take repeated draughts of brandy, or scold the children. Then
she saw in this joyless dwelling, in which she crouched with her little
sisters, a young girl enter, and greet them smilingly. She wore a robe
glittering with gold, with transparent wings upon her shoulders. This
young girl was Wilhelmine's older sister, Sophie, who had just returned
from the Italian opera, where she was employed. She still had on her
fairy costume in which she had danced in the opera of "Armida," and had
come, with a joyous face, to take leave of her parents, and tell them
that a rich Russian count loved her, and wanted to marry her; that in
the intervening time he had taken a beautiful apartment for her, where
she would remove that very evening. She mu