At last she stood at the threshold of a green apartment that appeared to her like an enchanted room, hollowed out of some vast emerald. A lamp with a green glass shade hung from the ceiling, and shed a soft, fairy-like light on the room and its inmates. And there on the large, canopied bed, with the glittering crown overhead, lay the queen.
Walpurga held her breath; a soft glow illumined the face of her who lay there.
"Have you come?" asked a gentle voice.
"Yes, my queen, God greet you! Just keep yourself quiet and cheerful. All has gone well with you, thank God!"
With these words, Walpurga advanced toward the bedside, and would not suffer Doctor Gunther nor Countess Brinkenstein to keep her back. She offered her hand to the queen. And thus two hands--one hardened by toil and rough as the bark of a tree, the other as soft as the petal of a lily--clasped each other.
"I thank you for having come. Were you glad to do so?"
"I was glad to come, but sorry to leave home."
"You surely love your child and your husband with all your heart."
"I'm my husband's wife, and my child's mother."
"And your mother nurses your child and cares for it with a loving heart?" inquired the queen.