od friend. Although one treats the king
respectfully, he is, nevertheless, as good as your Hansei, and I'm as
good as you. And now, let's shake hands! Let bygones be bygones.
Whatever you do, not a word of this to Kramer; and don't forget that,
hereabouts, the walls have ears."

Without saying another word. Countess Irma began the melody of a
Highland song upon her zither.

Walpurga could hardly realize what had happened to her. She was
provoked at her own stupid and forward behavior, and was firmly
resolved to keep her own counsel in the future.

While Irma was playing, the king again passed through the _portiere_
and stopped to listen. Irma did not look up; her eyes were fixed upon
her zither. When she had finished, the king applauded faintly. She
arose and bowed, but did not accompany the king when he went into the
adjoining chamber to look at the prince.

"Your zither is in perfect tune, dear countess, but you seem to be
somewhat out of tune," said the king, as he came back into the room.

"I am in tune. Your Majesty," replied Countess Irma. "I've just been
playing an air to Walpurga, and it has deeply affected me."

The king left very soon afterward, and without offering his hand to the
countess. Walpurga's saddest thought was that she dared not even trust
Mademoiselle Kramer.

"Oh, you poor child!" said she to the prince, one day, when no one was
by. "Oh, you poor, dear child! you're expected to grow up among people
who don't trust each other. If I could only take you with me, what a
fine boy you'd become. You're still innocent--children, until they
begin to speak, are the only innocent creatures in this world. But what
matters it? I didn't make the world, and needn't change it. The
countess is right. I'll nurse you well, care for you tenderly, and
leave the rest to God."

CHAPTER XV.

"Your wish is fulfilled at last," said Countess Irma to Doctor Gunther,
just as they were rising from the dinner-table.

"What wish?"

"I how have a female friend, a companion, and, in the words of the
song, 'you'll ne'er find a better.'"

"Your treatment of the peasant woman is quite amiable and does you
great credit, but she is not a friend. Your friend should be one who is
your equal. Your relation toward this peasant woman will always be that
of a patron. She never dare find fault with you, and if she were to
make the attempt, you could readily silence her. Mere common-sense i