"She might as well be," answered old Franz, on hearing the question. "Her husband is in America, and she has heard no word from him for three long years. Poor Gertrude was one of the fairest and sweetest matrons in all the Thuringerwald, but she is sadly changed, poor thing." "I dare say. Do you know her, then?" "She is my grand-niece." "And did her husband go against her will?" "I fancy nobody waited to find out what her will was, or his, either," answered the old man, dryly. "He had no time even to bid farewell to his family." The prince moved uneasily on his horse as he overheard the words. "Who is the man on whose arms the woman leans?" he asked. "I have never seen him before." "He does not live about here, though he is a not unfrequent visitor," said Franz. "He is one of the Moravian ministers from Herrnhut, and goes about the country teaching and preaching where he pleases. The folks look on him as a prophet or saint. They call him the consoler, and say he is sure to turn up where there is any great grief or trouble." "Well, gentlemen, we may as well ride on," said the prince. He would have infinitely preferred to return home, only he was afraid of being laughed at for his superstition. Not that any one (unless it might be Count Maurice) would have ventured to do so to his face, but he knew very well they would not hesitate behind his back. He was especially jealous of his two young visitors, the counts Victor and Maurice of Nassau, who had been much at the court of Frederick the Great, and were believed to be infected by the new French philosophy. He made the sign of the cross again—rather awkwardly, for he never could remember where to begin—and the train moved on. The funeral was over, and the neighbours who had lingered at the stone cottage ceased their well-meant attempts at consolation and went their way home. Gertrude Reinhart had gone through the funeral services with dry eyes and compressed lips. She had not shed a tear since her boy died. With the same outwardly composed face she was engaged in preparing supper for her children, when she was disturbed by a knock at the door. With a movement of impatience she opened it. There stood the priest whom we saw in the morning, and at some little distance behind him the young count Maurice. "You are the widow Reinhart, whose son was buried this morning?" said the priest, kindly. "I am Gertrude Reinhart, whose son was buried this morning," answered Gertrude, briefly, for she was in no mood for ceremony. "Whether I am a widow or not, Heaven only knows. What is your business with me? It must needs be pressing, since you disturb with it the house of mourning." "I beg your pardon," answered the priest, gently. "I understood you were a widow. Forgive me if I have hurt you. My errand is to bring you this money from His Serene Highness, who was witness of your trouble this morning and desires to help you." Gertrude's cheek flushed and her eyes blazed with sudden fire.