she was placed far above them. Her soul
was all humility.

A few days later, the newspapers mysteriously hinted that attempts had
been made to take advantage of the angelic purity of the queen, in
order to estrange her from herself and alienate the affections of the
people from her.

This, it was readily understood, alluded to the queen's contemplated
change of faith.

The queen had always openly acknowledged herself on the side of the
liberal opposition, and the king regarded Gunther as the mediator who
had procured her the goodwill of the press, and who, in doing so, had
not feared committing an indiscretion.

This plain and flagrant perversion of the truth only served the more to
embitter him against the press and the machinations of the queen's
party at court. Nevertheless, he dissembled his resentment, for he felt
that he could well afford to bide his time.

CHAPTER VI.

(IRMA TO HER FRIEND EMMA.)

"Let me tell you all that I did yesterday. I wanted to read--I saw the
letters but could not read a word, for they all seemed to be moving
about the page, like so many ants in an anthill. I wanted to sing, but
no song was to my liking. I wanted to play, but even Beethoven seemed
strange, and I lay for hours, dreaming. I followed the little mother
and her son beyond the mountain. The larks sang my thoughts to them.
They reach their home, and the wild, daring lad is tractable once more.
He carols his merry song to his beloved. I fancy I hear him. Ah, Emma!
what is there so glorious as making others happy? It is hard enough to
be a human being, fettered by a thousand trammels, by ailments,
consideration for others, and all sorts of misery; but to suffer want
beside! The very idea of jails is a disgrace to humanity. Ah, Emma! how
noble, how like a revelation from the great heart of the people, were
the words of the simple-minded wife of the wood-cutter. I tried to put
what she had said into verse, intending to give it to the king the next
morning; but I could not do it; nothing satisfied me. Language is worn
out, narrow, coarse. I was ever thinking of Schiller's words: 'When the
soul speaks, it has ceased to be the soul. I left my scribbling. I
passed a restless night. When the soul's depths are stirred, it wanders
about like a spirit, and can find no rest in sleep.

"While at breakfast this morning, I informed the king of what Walpurga
had said. I was an