"The countess is--very ill."
"Very ill? You say it in such a--not dangerously, I hope?"
"I fear so."
"Doctor! your voice--what is it? The countess is not--"
"Dead--!" said the doctor, covering his face with his hands.
For a few moments there was breathless silence in the great hall. At last the queen exclaimed:
"Dead! Was it grief at her father's death?"
The doctor nodded affirmatively.
The flower-table which Irma had painted stood by the queen's side. The queen looked at it for a long while. At last, completely forgetting those about her--her gaze still fixed upon the table which, now that she was weeping bitterly, was wet with her tears--she cried out, in heart-rending accents:
"Oh, how beautiful she was; how radiant her eyes, how bright her glance, how musical her voice! Her singing was like the warbling of the lark! And all this beauty, all this love and goodness is no more! I would love to see her, even in death. She must be beautiful, a very image of peace. And you say that she died of grief at her father's death; of a broken heart? Was it one great, convulsive throb of feeling that broke her ardent, noble heart? Oh, my sister--for I loved her as such--forgive me that even the shadow of doubt--Oh, my sister!--the lovely flowers on this table were conjured up by your hand--And you are faded, withered, decayed! You were lovelier than any flower! I can still see your eye, as it followed every stroke of the pencil. You meant to give me undying flowers, and as an undying flower you shall dwell in my heart."