"You'll see," said Ingeborg confidently; and she suddenly flung out her arms and turned her face up to the sun and the blue through the little leaves and all the light and promise of the world, and stretched herself in an immense contentment. "Oh," she sighed, "isn't it all _good_--isn't it all _good_--" "It is," agreed Herr Dremmel. "But it is nothing to how good it will be presently, when we are surrounded by our dear children." "Children?" said Ingeborg. She dropped her arms and looked at him. She had not thought of children. "Then, indeed, my little wife will not wish to write letters or compose sermons." "Why?" said Ingeborg. "Because you will be a happy mother." "But don't happy mothers--" "You will be entirely engaged in adoring your children. Nothing else in the world will interest you." Ingeborg stood looking at him with a surprised face. "Oh?" she said. "Shall I?" Then she added, "But I've never _had_ any children." "It was not to be expected," said Herr Dremmel. "Then how do you know nothing else in the world will interest me?" "Foolish Little One," he said, taking her in his arms, his eyes moist with tenderness, for he knew that here against his breast he held in her slender youth the mother of all the Dremmels, and the knowledge profoundly moved him. "Foolish Little One, is not throughout all nature every mother solely preoccupied by interest in her young?" "Is she?" said Ingeborg doubtfully, quite a number of remembered family snapshots dancing before her eyes. Still, she was very willing to believe. She looked at him a moment thinking. "But--" she said, gently pushing herself a little way from him, both hands on his chest. "But what then, small snail?" "Wouldn't they be German children?" "Undoubtedly," said Herr Dremmel proudly. "All of them?" "All of them?" he echoed. "It wouldn't be like Roman Catholics and Protestants marrying, and half the children be German and half English?" "Certainly not," said Herr Dremmel emphatically. "But Robert--" "Continue, little hare." "What are German children _like_?" It was now Herr Dremmel's turn to say confidently, "You'll see." * * * * * A week later they were married; and the Bishop, inscrutably watching Ingeborg from the doorstep as she was being tucked by deft hands into the rugs of the car that was to take her to the station, observing how cushions were put in the right places at her back, how a footstool was carefully inserted under her feet, how her least movement was interpreted and instantly attended to, made his farewell remark to his daughter--the last remark, as it happened, that he ever did make to her. "You will miss Wilson," he said; and re-entered the Palace a slightly comforted man. She never saw him again. PART II CHAPTER XII