rvants and guards. They entered other apartments,
which were filled with people, who paused in their eager conversation
to glance at Walpurga, In the third room, Dr. Gunther advanced toward
her. Taking her by the hand, he led her up to a gentleman who was
attired in a brilliant uniform and wore the crosses and medals of many
orders.

"This is his majesty, the king," said he.

"I know him; I've seen him before," replied Walpurga. "My father rowed
him across the lake, and so did my Hansei, too."

"Then, as we have known each other so long, let us improve our
acquaintance," replied the king. "And now go to the queen; but be
careful not to agitate her."

He dismissed her with a gracious inclination of the head and,
accompanied by Doctor Gunther and Countess Brinkenstein, whom they
found in attendance, she passed through several other rooms, the heavy
carpets of which deadened the sounds of their footsteps.

"Be careful not to agitate her." The words greatly troubled Walpurga.
Why should she provoke the queen to anger? for that was the only
meaning she could take from the word.

Although she did not know what they meant by the word, her being pushed
hither and thither, up and down, through passages and rooms without
number, encountering the glances of the courtiers by the way and, at
last, receiving the king's warning, had had the effect of agitating
her.

At last she stood at the threshold of a green apartment that appeared
to her like an enchanted room, hollowed out of some vast emerald. A
lamp with a green glass shade hung from the ceiling, and shed a soft,
fairy-like light on the room and its inmates. And there on the large,
canopied bed, with the glittering crown overhead, lay the queen.

Walpurga held her breath; a soft glow illumined the face of her who lay
there.

"Have you come?" asked a gentle voice.

"Yes, my queen, God greet you! Just keep yourself quiet and cheerful.
All has gone well with you, thank God!"

With these words, Walpurga advanced toward the bedside, and would not
suffer Doctor Gunther nor Countess Brinkenstein to keep her back. She
offered her hand to the queen. And thus two hands--one hardened by toil
and rough as the bark of a tree, the other as soft as the petal of a
lily--clasped each other.

"I thank you for having come. Were you glad to do so?"

"I was glad to come, but sorry to leave home."

"You surely love your child and your husband with all your heart."

"I'm my husban