ncircled her
waist. Her movements were easy and graceful; her expression, half
earnest, half mischievous. "Might I ask," said she, addressing the
doctor, "the name of the book you've found worth reading on this lovely
morning?"

"It was well worth reading, although, to tell the truth, I've not
opened it," replied the doctor, while he handed the little book to her.
It was Horace.

"Oh, it's Latin!" said the lady. Her voice was as clear and bold as
that of a chaffinch. "And this, I suppose, is your mass."

The doctor briefly alluded to the success with which the ancient
writers had compressed so many weighty and enduring thoughts into so
small a volume.

The party entered the saloon, seating themselves as best pleased them,
for the order of rank or precedence was not insisted on at breakfast.
They were in the country and, with their uniforms, had laid aside many
of the vexatious requirements of etiquette.

There is nothing more cheerful than a gay and unconstrained party at
breakfast. All are still full of the new strength that refreshing sleep
has lent them; society succeeds to solitude; and the spirits of all
seem affected by the soft, dewy morn.

There were no servants at breakfast. The ladies waited on the company,
which was almost as free and unconstrained as a family party. The
doctor drank nothing but tea which he himself prepared. The lady with
the brown hair invited herself to a seat next to him and poured out
the tea for him. At her left, sat Colonel Von Bronnen, the king's
adjutant-general, and the only one, in fact, who did not seem to miss
his uniform.

The party seemed in undress, mentally as well as physically, and there
was much loud and confused talking.

"Dear me! It's Sunday!" said the young lady with the brown hair.

Uproarious laughter greeted her remark; and when the queen inquired as
to the cause of so much merriment, the doctor informed her of the
startling discovery which had just been made by Countess Irma von
Wildenort. The queen smiled.

"I had thought," said the king, addressing the countess and at the same
time lighting his cigar--he was the only one who smoked in the
saloon--"that with you every day was Sunday."

"Yes, Your Majesty, but only since I've had the honor of being here. At
the convent, Sunday was the only day on which we had cake, whilst here
we have cake every day; and so I am obliged to use some other means to
find out which is Sunday."

Von Schnabelsdorf, who h