A dress of faded white brocade embroidered with wreaths of blue roses and a petticoat gleaming dully with tarnished gold thread.
“Der Herr Jesus!” cried the Countess.
The Princess closed the press; then she threw off her gown and stood a wraith-like figure in her white shift.
With a ghastly look she put on the brocade, which rustled drearily as if it groaned at being drawn from its tomb. She laced it across the bosom with the pink cord, she spread out the skirts, she shook the yellow lace into place.
With a steady step she crossed the room to the bed.
“In the firelight, in the firelight, like this, eh, Annette?”
“What has happened to you?” quavered the old woman.
“I do not know,” answered the Princess. “I feel strange to-night, almost as if hope had come once more; almost as if I should never see the flats and the road and the Aller again; almost as if I should never count the plovers again nor drive three miles forth, three miles back along the Hayden road; almost as if Philip von Königsmarck were near.”
“It is the wind,” said the Countess.