she found herself in a state of feverish excitement, which became almost
unbearable when the queen showed her a passage in a letter just received
from the king. "Please make Countess Irma send me regular reports about
our son. Remember me to the dear fourth leaf of our clover-leaf."

She was indignant at this unworthy attempt at forcing her to write. Was
Walpurga right after all? Were lovers' glances to be exchanged over the
child's cradle? She longed for solitude and peace. On the way to her
room she had to stop to think where she was. A gallop might cool her
feverish head. She ordered her horse to be saddled, but had scarcely
changed into her riding-habit when a letter was handed to her, which was
unsealed with trembling fingers. It was a simply worded invitation from
her father, who wished to see her again after her long absence at court.
Here was salvation, balm for her aching heart! She gave a few orders,
then hurried to the queen's apartments to obtain leave of absence; and,
accompanied by her maid, sped to her paternal home the same evening as
fast as the horses would carry her.

The days passed quickly at the manor house, where Irma, for the first
time, gained an insight into the noble mind and firm character of her
father. In his many soothing talks Count Eberhard told her of his
regrets at having been forced by circumstances--her mother's death
before Irma had reached the age of three, and his inability to give her
a proper education in his mountain retreat--to send her first to her
aunt, then to the convent, and thus neglecting his duties as father. A
word from him would have decided her to remain under his roof, but the
old philosopher held that each intelligent being must work out its own
destiny, and would not influence her decision. His slighting remarks
about the monarchic system, about the impossibility of the king, with
all his noble intentions, being able to see the world as it is, since