The child laughed heartily, while Walpurga looked into his eyes and spoke to him thus. Then it laid its little head on her cheek, and Walpurga cried out: "Mademoiselle Kramer! Mademoiselle Kramer! he knows how to kiss already: he's kissing me now. Yes, you're the right sort of a man and a king's son to boot; they always begin betimes." It seemed as if she wanted to make known all the love she had for the child during the few days that yet remained to her at the palace, and she did this both from affection and spite, for she desired to show the Frenchwoman how very much she and the child loved one another. He would never grow to love the foreigner as much as he loved Walpurga, and then she would sing: "Standing by yon willow tree, Scarcely weeping, thou dost see My bark put off from shore. "As long as willows grow, As long as waters flow, Thou'lt see me nevermore." While she sang, the boy crowed and laughed, and Walpurga protested to Mademoiselle Kramer, that she would wager her head he understood everything already. "And besides," said she, with an angry glance at the Frenchwoman, "the language that little children speak is the same all the world over. Isn't it so? The French don't come into the world speaking gibberish." Then she would sing and dance about, and kiss the child again. It seemed as if she must repress all her sadness, and, in one outburst, give vent to all her joy. "You excite the child too much; you will do it harm," said Mademoiselle Kramer, endeavoring to quiet her. "That won't harm him; he's got the right stuff in him. No Frenchwoman can spoil him." Walpurga was in a restless and contradictory mood. She had long known that the tie would be broken, and had often wished and hoped for that end. But now when the moment of separation approached, all painful memories vanished. She felt that she could never again live alone. She would always miss something, even the trouble and excitement; and, besides, everything had always come all right again. She felt hurt, moreover, that the others seemed so indifferent about her leaving them. And the child--why hadn't it sense enough to speak and say: "Father and mother, you mustn't do this; you mustn't take my Walpurga away?" But now others controlled the child. What would they do with him? Why should she no longer be allowed to interfere, and to say things should be thus and so? She had nursed him from the first day of his life, and they had been together day and night. And how would the days and nights be when they were no longer together? When Walpurga had finished her supper, she held up the empty dish to the child and, with a bitter tone, said: "Do you see this? I'm of no more use now than this empty platter."