"Give me your hand," said the mother. "Yes, I've been thinking about your hands. I've noticed that you wash them whenever you've touched anything. That's very nice, but it won't do here. Your hand's become soft and tender this last year, while mine's as hard as leather; and you'll soon have to harden your hands too. For God's sake, don't make your husband skittish, and don't give him an ugly word. Take my word for it, he couldn't help going up there to-night, and it's Saturday night besides. It was just as if six horses were dragging him. He's got used to it, and habits are strong things that can't be changed at will. He's not bad; I'm sure of that. Let him have his own way, just as he's used to, and he'll soon be all right again." Walpurga made no answer. She busied herself paring potatoes for her mother, who went on to say: "The things that are God's gifts we have just as good as they have them in the palace." "There! we've saved one poor soul," replied Walpurga with a smile, "I said the very same words to Hansei, a little while ago." When they had finished paring the potatoes for the next day, the mother said: "I'll tell you what. Let's close the front door, and sit on the little seat your father was so fond of, in the grassy garden back of the house. There we can talk to each other without being disturbed, and, as the lights are out, we'll have no visitors. Nor do we want any, for we're enough by ourselves." "Oh God! if only my husband felt so, too." "Let him alone at the inn. Thank God that we're alone together. Don't act like a deposed queen; it only makes it so much the harder for you." Mother and daughter went out through the back door that led to the little garden, where they seated themselves on a bench which stood against the wall and opposite the stable window, and left the back door ajar so that they might hear the child if it should cry. They heard nothing, however, except the noise, made by the cows while feeding. The moon was high, and the shimmering surface of the lake reflected its rays. Now and then, the _yodel_ of some distant mountaineer, the barking of a dog, or the soft splash of an oar, were the only sounds that broke the silence. "If the first two weeks were only over," said Walpurga, "I'd be better used to it." "Don't wish for time to pass. It comes and goes of itself." "Yes, mother; tell me everything I'm to do, I don't care to have my own will now." "That won't do, either. Those who can walk alone must fall alone." "I'll try to do my best." "Very well. Tell me one thing: how is it in the palace about now?" "About now? Dear me, it seems two years since I left there. By this time, the lamps have been lit in all the passageways, and downstairs, where the king and the queen are, they're just about leaving the table. But we have nothing to do with that. Mademoiselle Kramer is reading her book. She reads a book through every day; and my prince. O you poor child--"