The elements that mingled in Walpurga's character were now in agitation, now in repose; the quiet life at home, the unquiet one at court, vanity, honor, humility, a desire to appear of consequence--all these were in a constant ferment. But at last all was clear.
"What have you done for Irma, after all?" she asked herself. "Nothing; you've only let her live with you."
For Irma's sake, she was willing to submit to disgrace.
"It isn't what people think of you, but what you really are, that's most important," thought she to herself, and breathed freely once more.
When she, at last, calmly rested her head on her pillow, she felt as if her mother's hand were stroking her brow.
CHAPTER VI.
It was a mild spring night.
Irma was sitting by the spring and looking up at the starry heavens. She felt strangely at the thought of again wandering forth, for on the following morning she was to start for the shepherd's hut, there to spend the summer. How would it be with her when she again sat here in the night, listening to the stream rushing by?
At that moment she heard whispering. It seemed to come from the dark stable, the door of which was open.
"Yes, Gundel; our mistress is just as changeable as April weather. On the way from home, she was as jolly as she could be, and on the way back, she was just as glum as if she'd been beaten. She went to see the great doctor. Something must have happened to her. But what does she matter to us, after all? She bought pots and pans, but I got something better. Let's have your hand. There! I put this little silver ring on your finger and make you fast to me, in soul and body, for life. Now you may go wherever you choose; you're mine, all the same."