ad heard the sad news, and would
regard it as a proof of her friendship, if Irma would allow her to
accompany her.

"Thank you, with all my heart," stammered Irma.

"Then you grant my request?"

"I thank you; on my knees, I'll thank you; but I beg of you, don't make
me talk much now."

"There's no need of your doing so, dear Countess," said Madame Gunther.
"You've apparently neglected or forgotten me; but in your heart, you've
remembered me. And even if it were otherwise, there was one short hour
during which we opened our hearts to each other."

Irma raised her hands as if to shield herself,--as if the kind words
pierced her like so many arrows. In a soothing voice, Madame Gunther
added: "I shall consider it a kindness, if you will allow me to be kind
to you; you have no mother and, perhaps--you will soon have no father."

Irma groaned aloud and pressed her hands to her eyes.

"My dear child," said Madame Gunther, placing her hand upon Irma's arm.
Irma started--"there are many of God's creatures on earth, so that the
sympathy of those whom misfortune has spared may serve as a support to
the afflicted, and as a light in the hour of darkness. I beg of you, do
not be proud in your grief. Let me share in all that the next few days
may have in store for you."

"Proud? proud?" asked Irma, suddenly grasping Madame Gunther's hand and
as suddenly dropping it again. "No, dear honored madame. I appreciate
your affectionate motives. I understand--I know--all. I could calmly
accept your kindness. I know--at least I think--that I, too, would have
just acted as you do, if--"

"This is the best and the only thanks," interposed Madame Gunther, but
Irma motioned her to stop, and continued:

"I entreat you, do not torture me. Your husband and my brother will
accompany me. I beg of you, say nothing more. I thank you; I shall
never forget your kindness."

Gunther entered the room again and Irma said:

"Is everything ready? We have no time to lose."

She bowed to Madame Gunther, and would gladly have embraced her, but
could not.

Madame Gunther, who had never, before this, set foot in the palace, had
only come to succor a ruined one. Never had the thought of herself so
filled Irma with anguish and remorse, as when this embodiment of
loving-kindness had held out her hand to her.

The thought that she no longer dared approach the pure pained her as if
demons were tearing her to pieces. Her first impulse was to throw
hersel