"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--"
Walpurga burst into tears. At the same moment, her own child began to cry and the two women hurried in.