"Would you rather be alone in your room while you write?" asked the king, betraying his vexation, in spite of himself. "I'll write wherever you want me to, but I can't do it well." Walpurga seated herself and wrote: "If your noble father will allow it, I shall be heartily glad when my dear Countess Irma is here again. My heart longs for her. "WALPURGA ANDERMATTEN." The king, having read it, said: "Write also--'it will do me and the prince much good to have you here again. You make us both happier'." "Dear king," said Walpurga, "how clever you are. What you say is quite true. Now be so kind as to dictate it to me. I can't put it into such good words, but I can write quite well from dictation. I learned it from Mademoiselle Kramer. I used to know how at school, but forgot it afterward." "No," replied the king, "write as your feelings prompt you. Ladies and gentlemen, let us leave Walpurga alone, and go to the veranda." Walpurga was sitting alone, in the great breakfast-room, biting the end of her pen and vainly endeavoring to remember the king's words. Suddenly she heard a slight noise near her and, looking up, saw Baum who was standing in the doorway. "Come here," she exclaimed, "you can help me, for you must have heard it all." "Certainly," replied Baum and dictated the king's words to Walpurga. She went out and handed the letter to the king. He praised her for having put the words so nicely. She was about to say that Baum had helped her, but one need not tell everything, and why not receive praise for what might have been? When Walpurga returned to her room, she smiled at her own shrewdness. The king would now surely give her the farm, for he had seen that she could write down everything and could keep accounts. The queen came into the garden with her hastily written note. It was unsealed. She gave it to the king saying: "Will you read it?" "It isn't necessary," said the king, closing the letter. After the letter was written there was endless tittering among the court ladies. They chirruped and chattered and teased each other, and hopped about like a flock of sparrows that have just discovered an open sack of corn. They soon scattered, and ladies who at other times could not endure each other were now good friends and, arm in arm, would walk up and down the park, while others would stand gathered in little groups. All seemed loth to separate. They had so much to tell each other that none seemed willing to leave. They all spoke kindly of Irma. Every one was still her best friend, but, nevertheless, careful to leave a loophole of escape open, for things might change.