A soft evening breeze came stealing round her. Nature could give no answer to her fearful questioning, but the gentle Spring wind kissed her on lips and brow. She rose and took her way to the terrace. Here, too, was ruinous neglect—grass-grown paths, moss-covered sculptures, untended plants. She looked up at the windows of the rooms which had been Eberhard Ludwig's; they were closed and shuttered.—Dead, everything was dead!
She hurried on towards La Favorite, her Château Joyeux. Here again was ruin, and here also her own face met her sculptured everywhere—smiling, young, and indifferent to the ruin. The flowering parterre was untended, but the lilacs and the redthorn-trees made the garden fair. The long Spring twilight faded, night drew near—and the Grävenitz turned away. 'Farewell,' she said aloud, 'the night comes! Farewell, Spring!'
That night Maria could not induce her beloved mistress to taste food. 'I am so weary, Maria, let me rest. I think God will give me sleep,' she said, and the faithful peasant woman left her.
In the morning Maria found her resting still. God had given her the Great Sleep.
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press
Transcriber's Notes
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