with you since we last met; the unexpected has happened. If I am to speak to you frankly, as we have agreed to do, then I must confess that you have changed greatly. Your cheeks have lost their blushes, your smiles their heartiness, your eyes the willfulness with which, it is said, you drove men to despair.”
The young lady faintly smiled, replying:
“To-day, at least, I shall not weary your majesty with complaints about the emptiness of my life; the cup of my life is filled and overflowing.”
“Do not yield to grief over the death of your father, Countess. We cannot, alas! change the laws of nature; our deepest grief cannot move one blade of grass. And so pluck up your courage and try to forget. What I said about the change in you was not said to the disparagement of your beauty. Your beauty, I think, has been perfected by that pale, pensive look. The loss of your father touched me deeply also; not only because in his death I lost a true counselor, but because I have been deprived of the pleasure
