Once upon a time there lived in an old palace by the sea a beautiful young queen, who was richer and more powerful than any other, far or near, in that region or across the water. She had many big ships, which brought to her from the most distant quarters of the globe valuables of every description. She possessed cities and castles, fields and flocks, and everything that the heart can desire. Her mints stamped gold from her mines, her mills ground wheat from her fields, her furnaces burned wood from her forests, the materials of her clothes were woven from silk from her silkworms and wool from her sheep, and, when she wanted to be merry, she had fools enough in her own country at whom she could laugh. Only one thing was lacking to make her happy: children, or at least one child. For, though she had been married several years, hitherto she had vainly longed for the joys of a mother.

When year after year passed away without the gift of a little one, the beautiful young queen lost her cheerfulness, and became more and more sorrowful. Her riches gave her no pleasure, she scarcely glanced at the precious things her ships brought from the most [282]distant countries. She did not laugh at her jesters, no matter what funny things they might say. Shutting herself up in her most distant tower, she played with the dolls she had had when she was a little girl, dressed and undressed them, washed and petted them, rocked them in her arms and sang them to sleep, or ordered very young babies to be brought, treated them in the same loving way, and covered them with kisses and tears before she allowed them to be carried back to their mothers.

The queen no longer had her mother, but she had her nurse, a good and wise woman. One day she asked her, “Tell me, nurse, does the stork never come into my country?”

“Oh, yes, my beautiful queen,” replied the nurse; “he probably comes every day and every night.”

“But why doesn’t he enter my palace?”

“That I do not know, my beloved queen, old as I am.”

“Don’t you think that I could have him caught as he is flying past the palace?”

The nurse shook her head doubtfully. “I wouldn’t advise that. If the stork is frightened, I have heard, he drops the child from his beak, and the baby’s little limbs are broken, and it is found dead. Then you will have nothing, and the mother who is expecting it will have no baby either.”

The queen could say nothing in answer to this. Yet she could not give up the thought of snatching a child [283]from the stork, if he did not bring her one voluntarily. She commanded her hunters to climb every night with nets to the roofs of the houses and the tops of the steeples, to the summits of the mountains and the branches of the trees, and seize a stork carrying a child if he flew past within reach of their arms. But they were strictly ordered not to frighten or injure the bird, and, above all, to take care that the child was not hurt.

The hunters obeyed the queen’s orders, and, night after night, went to their stations in the tree-tops, on the mountain peaks, towers, and roofs. They saw, by the light of the moon and stars, plenty of storks flying by with babies in their beaks, but they did not come near enough to have the nets thrown over them, [284]and the hunters were obliged to leave their lofty posts with empty hands. The queen was very much displeased with them for their lack of skill, but the storks, too, were very angry. They complained to the fairy of the children, that they could not go their way through the kingdom of the beautiful young queen unmolested, but were startled by sudden shouts and throwing of nets, so that they almost dropped the children intrusted to them. Besides, these malicious attacks disturbed the children, who sometimes began to cry, and they ought not to open their little mouths in the chill night air; they might get sick.

The fairy of the children listened to the grievances of her messenger birds with a frown, and determined to go to the bottom of the mischief. She went with the storks, who set out after sunset, and, as soon as she had crossed the frontiers of the beautiful young queen’s kingdom, she saw at once, on the first wooded mountains, in the tops of the tallest trees, a large number of hunters, with nets in their hands, watching for the storks. Flying as swiftly as an eagle to one of them, she grasped him by both shoulders, crying in a terrible voice, “Man! why don’t you let my storks alone?”

The hunter jumped so that he would certainly have fallen from the tree if the fairy had not held him. So he only dropped his net, and answered trembling, “Because I was ordered to do it.”

In reply to other questions, the fairy of the children [285]was told that the hunters were acting by the commands of their queen, and that their mistress was angry with them when, after watching vainly all night long, they appeared at the palace in the morning without stork or child.

The fairy of the children ordered the frightened hunter to leave his post immediately, go home, and tell all his companions to let the storks alone in the future if they valued their lives. He obeyed, but the next morning, instead of the expected hunters, the fairy of the children came to the palace, entered the young queen’s room, and, without a word of greeting, said in a harsh voice, with a stern face, “What does it mean that you have commanded your huntsmen to catch the storks as they fly past carrying children?”

The queen looked in astonishment at the tall stranger in the blue robe, with the sparkling eyes and the little white lace cap on her gray hair, and answered with dignity: “You evidently do not know to whom you are speaking. Or you would not dare—”

“Nonsense!” interrupted the fairy of the children; “these high and mighty airs are out of place with me. I know very well that you are the queen of this kingdom, but no sovereign is of any account in my presence. I hold the most sacred office. The future of the human race is confided to me. I watch over the rising generation. I am the fairy of the children, who sends the storks to the mothers, and I forbid you—” [286]

The fairy of the children could say no more. Scarcely had the queen heard who stood before her when, forgetting all pride, she threw herself at the fairy’s feet, clasped her knees, and pleaded, “Dear, good fairy of the children, give me a little child.”

The fairy looked at her thoughtfully a short time, then raised her kindly, saying in a far more gentle voice, “No, dear queen; I cannot grant your request.”

“But why not, dear fairy? Why should a happiness which the humblest mother among my subjects may enjoy be denied to me?”

“Children bestow not only happiness, but sorrow, too, dear queen.”

“I will gladly take the sorrow into the bargain, dear fairy.”

“You don’t know what you wish to undertake, good little queen. A child falls ill easily and often, then the mother watches in terrible anxiety through nights of pain beside its little bed. A child often dies very young, and then the mother will never again enjoy her life. And, even if the child grows up, it finally marries and leaves the mother alone in her old age.”

“All this does not frighten me, dear fairy. Only give me a little child, I beseech you from my heart. I will nurse it if it is sick; I will not survive it if it dies; I will rejoice in its happiness if it marries; but give me a little child, dear fairy of the children.” [287]

[286]

The fairy reflected a little while. “Wait,” she said. [289]“I will see if I can do anything for you.” Going very close to the queen, she looked at her sharply, murmuring: “Why! she really has the heart thread. I have not often found it in queens.”

“What is the heart thread?” asked the queen, very curiously and rather anxiously.

“Have you never seen it?” replied the fairy of the children.

“No,” said the queen. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Then the fairy grasped something and held it before the queen’s eyes, and the queen saw with surprise a long thread, as fine as the finest cobweb, which looked as if it had been spun from gold. Seizing it, she pulled it somewhat hastily, and felt a sudden pain in her heart, so that she uttered a little scream. She now perceived that the thread grew from her bosom, and she asked the fairy of the children if she had had it long.

“You have always had it,” answered the fairy of the children; “but you did not notice it, and therefore did not see it. I will now send you a child, which will have a heart thread, too. Fasten it to yours, then nothing and no one can part you.”

The queen began to weep for joy, but, before she could express her gratitude, the fairy of the children had flown out of the window and was floating through the air like a blue cloud. The queen called her nurse, and told her joyously that the stork was going to come [290]to her. Instantly there were great preparations in the palace; forty skilful seamstresses sewed on the child’s clothing, twelve jewellers made a cradle of gold, silver, and gems, a young nurse was summoned from the mountains, and, when all was ready and in order, they waited eagerly.

They did not wait long. The evening after the nurse reached the palace, a clattering was heard at the tower window. They hurried to open it and a big stork dropped a little child into the nurse’s arms, and flew off like an arrow. The nurse ran with the baby into the chamber of the queen, who, with a cry of joy, clasped it in her arms and covered it with kisses. The child was a wonderfully beautiful little girl, white and rosy, with round limbs, golden hair, and blue eyes. The queen looked at it quickly. Yes, from the little bosom grew a marvellously fine thread like gold, which seemed so delicate that a breath must tear it; but it was so strong that the queen could not separate the tiniest end, either with all the strength of her hands or with the scissors. Unnoticed by her women, she knotted the child’s heart thread to her own, and felt a gentle warmth streaming from the little heart into hers, which filled her with delight.

From that time the beautiful young queen was always with her little girl, whom she named Hilda. At first the two knotted heart strings were so short that the mother could scarcely go a few arms’ lengths from her [291]child. Hilda was obliged to follow the queen wherever she went, and if the nurse, who carried the child, did not move quickly enough, it pulled so painfully at her heart that she stopped with a scream. But as the child grew larger, the heart thread lengthened too. When Hilda began to run, it had become long enough for her to trot and creep through all the halls in the palace, without disturbing the queen; and when she was two years old, it reached from the farthest end of the palace park, so that Hilda could frolic on the grass without hurting her mother; and when she had gained her fifteenth year, the length of the heart thread allowed her to drive three hours in a carriage drawn by spirited horses, without pulling the hearts of the mother and child. But Hilda did not exceed this distance, for if the heart thread grew tight, it hurt her little heart, and she impetuously insisted on being taken back to her mother.

Hilda grew finely, the heart thread constantly lengthened, the mother and child were one, and yet independent of each other, when one day it happened that the queen was sitting in her tower chamber, while Hilda and her nurse were walking on the seashore. Suddenly the queen felt a pain in her heart such as she had not had for a long, long time. Shrieking, she rushed out on the balcony, to look for her child; for from there she could get a view of the whole palace park, the shore, and the sea. She instantly discovered the nurse, who [292]was running up and down the beach screaming and wringing her hands, and saw on the sea a ship moving swiftly away with all her sails spread. The queen knew, by the way the ship was built, that she was a pirate craft. Pirates had come, seized the Princess Hilda, and were now carrying her to their distant country.

The queen called despairingly for her admirals, sailors, and soldiers. When they came hurrying in the greatest consternation, she commanded them to put to sea at once with the strongest warship in her navy. The hasty preparations did not occupy much time, it is true; but when the vessel weighed anchor, the pirates were no longer in sight. The queen had sailed too. She stood beside the helmsman, and as she felt distinctly and painfully where the pull at her heart was, she could tell him the exact direction in which to steer the ship.

The queen’s man-of-war was larger, stronger, and swifter than the pirate craft. After a chase of two hours, the pursued vessel hove in sight. The queen urged her men to set every sail, her ship cut swiftly through the water, the distance between the two constantly lessened, the pull at the queen’s heart diminished, her pain ceased, and she soon came so near the pirate vessel that she could see Hilda, guarded by two pirates, sitting on the forward deck, weeping.

“Yield!” the queen commanded her captain to shout through the speaking trumpet to the pirate, “yield, and we will show you mercy.” [293]

But the pirates only laughed scornfully, and sailed on as fast as they could, to escape their pursuers. But the queen’s ship came nearer and nearer, and already they could calculate how soon they would be overtaken.

When the queen’s man-of-war was within a few cable lengths of the pirates, they seized the Princess Hilda and threw her overboard. The queen’s people uttered a cry of horror. Only the queen herself remained calm. She stood erect beside the railing of the ship, moving her arms and hands, as if she was drawing something invisible. The sailors thought that the queen was practising some magic; for they did not see what she was pulling. But she drew quickly and strongly on the heart thread, and the Princess Hilda followed it and soon reached the side of the ship, where the sailors could fish her out of the water and place her in her mother’s arms. The pursuit of the pirates was continued with double zeal, the pirate craft was soon overtaken and sunk in the sea with all on board, so that from that time the shore of the queen’s kingdom was safe from their attacks.

When the queen returned to her palace with her rescued child, she ordered a great banquet to be prepared for her admirals, soldiers, and sailors. But the fright, excitement, and plunge into the cold sea had made Princess Hilda ill, so that she had to go to bed. Her mother remained by her side to nurse her. During the night she fell asleep from weariness, and then Death [294]came stealing softly in to take Hilda. He was already stretching his bony arms toward the little girl when he saw the heart thread which went from her to her mother, and shone like dull gold in the light of the night lamp. He hesitated, cautiously grasped the thread, and tried to break it in two. But it resisted, and Death accomplished nothing by his struggle except to wake the mother and child, and be seen by them.

Princess Hilda hid her head under the bedclothes, but the queen seized her heavy gold sceptre, which stood in the corner, and struck Death with all her might, screaming, “Begone, monster, begone!”

Death was ordered to bring only Hilda, not the queen. As he could not get one without the other, he was obliged to be off with his errand unfinished. Tearing himself away from the queen’s blows, which almost broke his rattling bones, he vanished in the darkness. Hilda recovered and continued to grow until she became a beautiful, tall young lady, and the queen’s old nurse said that the princess ought to marry. But the queen would not hear of it, saying impatiently, “There is plenty of time, nurse, there is plenty of time.”

It happened, however, that a prince from a neighboring country came to visit the palace, saw Hilda, and, dazzled by her beauty, exclaimed, “This lovely princess must become my wife; she or no one.” He pleased Hilda, too, and when he asked her if she would make [295]him happy by giving him her hand, she answered, “Yes.”

The young pair went to the queen and begged for her consent to the marriage, but the queen said, “No, it cannot be.”

“Why not?” asked Hilda, bursting into tears.

Her mother clasped her in her arms, kissed her tenderly, and answered gently: “Don’t ask why; only believe me, it cannot be. Stay quietly with me. Nowhere can you be happier than with your mother.”

But Hilda did not see this, and when the prince urged her to fly with him to his kingdom and marry him there, she allowed herself to be persuaded, mounted his horse at nightfall, and dashed away with him. For several hours they rode at full gallop, without Hilda’s repenting her disobedience. But long as the heart thread was, it was not endless, and toward midnight, when she had almost reached the frontiers of her mother’s kingdom, it grew tight, and would stretch no farther. Hilda felt a violent pull at her heart, and began to suffer intense pain. Yet her love for the prince was so strong that she bravely bore her torture and rode on with him, though at every step of the horse she suffered cruelly.

But the queen in her castle also felt the pulling of the heart thread, and knew by it that her child had fled. So, in the midst of the dark night, she prepared for pursuit as quickly as possible; she could not bear the pain in her breast. She rode like the wild huntsman, [296]she rode like the wind, she rode like the lightning, and in the gray dawn of morning she reached the pair, who could not go forward as quickly, because it was hard for the horse to carry two. “Stop, stop!” called the queen, and when she had overtaken the fugitives she said reproachfully: “Hilda, you have left your mother. Your mother could never have brought herself to desert you.”

“It is the way of the world,” replied the prince; “we were sure that you would forgive us, your Majesty.”

Hilda dismounted from the horse, hid her face on her mother’s bosom, and said softly: “My heart gave me great pain, and drew me violently back to you. But I cannot leave the prince.”

The queen embraced her and answered tenderly: “We two must not part. You will not wish me to leave my kingdom and follow you into a foreign land. Turn back, both of you. You shall marry the prince, and after my death he shall become monarch of my kingdom.”

Then the prince and Hilda joyously embraced each other and kissed the good queen’s hand, and they all went back, and the inhabitants of the country crowded around their carriage, rejoicing. When they were again in the palace, festivals were held for the court, the servants, and the subjects, which lasted three weeks; then Hilda and the prince were married, and when Princess Hilda stood at the altar in her bridal veil, she threw her [297]arms around her mother’s neck and whispered in her ear, “Though I have a husband, I will never, never leave you.”

And she never did leave the queen, who always loved her just as dearly as when she was a little child in her arms. The heart thread remained so fine that no one except the queen could see it; it was so long that Princess Hilda never felt it when she was in the kingdom; but if she travelled in foreign countries, her mother always went with her, so that the heart thread was never pulled.

Years passed away, the queen grew older and older, till at last she was so aged that life became a burden. Now she herself called Death, whom she had once driven away, and when he appeared before her somewhat timidly, said to him: “Friend Death, you can take me now. I am ready.”

“But the heart thread?” Death objected. “I cannot tear it, and I have no instructions to take the princess with me.”

Then the weary queen thought of again appealing to the fairy of the children, who had so kindly aided her a long, long time ago. She went up on the tower of her palace after sunset, and when the storks carrying the children began to fly past, she called one and begged him to tell the fairy of the children that the queen earnestly desired to speak to her.

The stork delivered the message on his return home, [298]and the next day the fairy of the children appeared before the queen. The fairy had not changed at all. She still had the same tall figure, sparkling eyes, and gray hair, was robed in blue, with a little white lace cap on her noble head; but the queen was no longer the beautiful young woman of former days, but a shrivelled old dame, with dull eyes and snow-white hair. The fairy gazed compassionately at her a little while, then she stroked her white head and wrinkled cheeks, asking gently, “What do you want of me, dear child?”

“Dear fairy of the children,” pleaded the queen in a faint voice, “the heart thread has lasted well, but now it is time to break it. You alone can do it. Please part it, that Death may lead me to rest. For I am tired.”

“My child,” replied the fairy of the children, “the heart thread no one can unbind, I no better than Death. But you need have no anxiety on that account. Go trustfully to rest, and rely on me. Your child shall have no discomfort from it.”

“I do trust you,” said the queen, kissing the kind hand of the fairy of the children. The fairy pressed a kiss upon her forehead, nodded, and vanished from her sight.

About midnight Death appeared again, and said curtly: “It is all arranged. You can come with me.” In the morning the queen was found dead in her bed. The Princess Hilda, who was now queen, grieved very deeply, but was gradually comforted, as children always are when they lose their parents. Yet from that time she [299]could never resolve to leave her kingdom, for if she crossed the frontiers, her heart began to ache strangely and drew her back to her mother’s marble tomb, which she visited daily. And when she, too, grew very old, and at last died, she was buried in the same grave beside her mother, and the gold heart thread, unseen by human beings, extended forever from the heart of the dead mother to the heart of the dead daughter. [301]

Early one morning, after a stormy night, the workmen in a great seaport found a little girl upon the shore. She was lying with nothing on but a little shirt, dripping wet upon the sands, and gave no sign of life. At some distance from the beach they saw the top of a mast rising from the water. A large ship had gone down with all on board, and the waves had brought to land only this one little girl.

A compassionate laborer took her up, wrapped her in his cotton blouse and carried her quickly to the neighboring office of a tidewaiter, where her wet shirt was removed. She was laid on a bench and covered up. As soon as she grew warm, she opened her eyes, and began to cry.

Everybody in the office admired the child’s delicate form, beautiful little rosy face, big blue eyes, and fair silken curls. The little shirt was made of the finest cambric, and embroidered with a gold coronet. Even without this mark it was evident that the child cast by the shipwreck on a foreign shore was of aristocratic birth, and had been carefully tended.

When the baby cried, the men standing around were [304]very sorry, but they did not know what to do, for they did not understand how to take care of little children; and, besides, they did not have on hand what was necessary to satisfy its wants. The child had not yet cut all its teeth, and could only stammer a few words in an unknown tongue.

The men consulted together, and soon agreed that the baby must be hungry and need, first of all, food and clothes. There was nothing in the office except some horrible brandy. But close by there was a sailors’ tavern, where they could get some milk and biscuits, which the little girl ate readily. When she had had some food, she stopped crying and fell asleep.

The tidewaiter was obliged to attend to his duties and could not stay with the child. The kind laborer who had carried her into the office also had to work, for he was a poor man, and if he lost a day’s work, he and his family would have nothing to eat the next day. Yet he could not make up his mind to leave the lovely little girl. Rolling up the wet shirt, he put it carefully in his big blue calico handkerchief, and slipped it into the wide pocket of his trousers. Then he again wrapped the poor, naked little creature in his blouse and in a woollen blanket, which the tidewaiter lent him, and went home with his precious burden in his shirt sleeves, though he did not consider it quite the proper thing for a respectable workingman and the father of a family.

“Hitherto you have given me children,” he said to [305]his wife, as he placed the little one in her hands, “now I will give you one.”

The woman gazed at the present with astonishment and no special pleasure; she thought that her own five children were enough. But when her husband told her how he had found the little girl, her mother heart was touched with pity and she said: “Where five are fed, a sixth can eat too. We will keep the little one, if no one claims her.”

So the little girl was adopted into the workman’s family, and the next Sunday he went to report it. The magistrate pondered over the name that should be given to the stranger child. A gale from the north had driven her ship on the shore. It had probably come from the north. Yet the child might have been born in the south. So he called her by a name half Greek, which is a southern, and half Danish, which is a northern language, Margarita Bölgebarn, that is, Pearl, the child of the waves, and urged her foster-father to take great care of the little shirt, with the tiny embroidered gold crown, in which she was found, as with its help perhaps the child’s relatives might some day be discovered.

Many ships had been wrecked during that stormy night, and it was never known which one had carried the child. No one appeared to claim it, so it remained with the workman and grew up with his children. Rita—as they called Margarita to shorten her name—grew finely, although she did not fare well with him. It was [306]very hard for the man to support himself and his family. They were often on short commons, and when there was not enough to eat for all, Rita had to wait until the others left something for her, and frequently went without entirely. Her foster-mother was not a bad woman, but poverty had made her hard, and her own flesh and blood came nearer to her than the foundling whom she had adopted. She did not grudge her a little place in the miserable home, but she was not allowed to cost anything; for the father’s scanty earnings did not permit it.

Rita slept in the same bed with the two youngest children, who pulled the scanty coverlets over them and left Rita half uncovered, so that in the winter nights she was bitterly cold, and nestled closely to her foster-sisters to get some warmth from their bodies. She turned over often, because this was the only way she could warm her right and left side in turn; but this disturbed her bed-fellows, and they cuffed and kicked her. She bore it, and only wept secretly, because it was still dark, and no one could see her. She was dressed in the clothes of her foster-sisters, after they could not or would not wear them any longer. So she usually went barefoot, and wore shabby, patched, shapeless garments. But though she looked like a scarecrow, every one who saw her noticed her remarkable beauty. Her little bare feet, though sunburnt and soiled by the mud of the streets, were as exquisite in form as if chiselled [307]by the hand of a skilful sculptor; her face was fair, rosy, and lovely; her large blue eyes were soft and dreamy, and her silken curls, carelessly as they were arranged, seemed like sunbeams playing around her beautiful head. Wherever she went, people stood still in the streets and looked after her. They thought she must be some aristocratic girl, who, for a whim, had disguised herself as a beggar child.

This did not escape the notice of her foster-sisters, and they envied her for her beauty, and because she attracted attention wherever she appeared. They made her feel more and more plainly that she was a foundling living on their charity. Everybody vied in giving her orders, and required her to obey them. Everybody made her serve as a maid-servant waits upon strict employers. She had to sweep the rooms, and once a week scrub and polish the floor. She had to light the fire in the kitchen every morning, and every evening, until late at night, clean the shoes of her foster-parents, her four foster-sisters, and even her foster-brother. She was obliged to do all the errands, and if there was no money in the house, let herself be scolded because she did not pay the debts and beg them to let her have still more on credit. She was so scantily dressed that the neighbors took pity on her and gave her all sorts of things, some shoes, another a skirt, a third a waist, a fourth a shawl, each one what she had and could spare. She went hungry, too, and when they saw it, people secretly gave her in [308]the houses, the shops, and at school, a bit of bread and end of sausage, an apple, or a piece of Dutch cheese. As she was always gentle and kind, never spoke in a loud voice, never quarrelled, never uttered an improper or a coarse word, her foster-sisters jeered at her and scornfully called her the princess. For they all knew that she was found in a fine little shirt with a small gold crown embroidered on it; they had seen the pretty garment themselves, though their father kept it carefully wrapped in paper in a drawer, and did not often bring it out to show any one, and when they thought that perhaps Rita really was a royal child, they were provoked, yet at the same time it gave them a spiteful pleasure to have a princess subject to the children of a plain workman, and obliged to do the most menial tasks for them.

From the time Rita was old enough to understand her position, she, too, thought constantly about her origin, and busied herself waking and sleeping about the secret of the little gold crown embroidered on her shirt. She had an eager longing to see and touch the dainty linen; but she did not dare to ask, for once, when she did so, her foster-father roughly refused, saying harshly, “Don’t think about it; it would only fill your head with silly notions.”

She had gradually learned where she had been found, and often went to the shore, sat down on the sand, and gazed out over the sea to the spot where the ship which had brought her here had sunk, and where perhaps her [309]parents were resting at the bottom of the water. Then deep sorrow overwhelmed her, and tears filled her eyes. She felt as if she must plunge into the waves, go down into the depths to her own kindred, and never return to her poverty and toil. She did not long for wealth and splendor, only for a mother’s love. How wonderfully delightful it must be to be embraced by a mother’s arms, allowed to kiss and caress her, and know that she was her own little girl! This joy she had never known, and she envied her foster-sisters who, in other ways, had so little for which to be envied.

When she was fourteen years old she had to begin [310]to earn something. At first she sewed jute coffee-bags, but after a few days the superintendent herself said to her, “Rita, this labor is too coarse for you, you can do something better,” and without consulting her foster-family she sent her to a milliner, where Rita liked her work very much, for there she had to make, of fine straw or lace, pretty hats for women, with velvet and silk, ribbons, flowers, and feathers, which she had much natural taste in arranging. They tried the hats on her for customers to see, and as everything was becoming, and the most expensive the most so, the ladies bought them very readily. She soon received good wages, which she took home honestly to her foster-mother, who in return treated her somewhat more kindly.

Rita was reserved and always liked to be alone. Her foster-sisters and her companions in the workroom thought this was pride, and resented it. She was only absorbed in her own thoughts, because her mind was constantly dwelling upon the little gold crown, the ship at the bottom of the sea, and those who were drowned in it. On Sundays and holidays she either stayed in a corner of the room, dreaming, or went to walk alone, usually on the shore, but often, too, in a little wood not far from the city. The other members of the family did not trouble themselves, but took their pleasure without her, and this suited her exactly.

One Sunday, soon after Easter, she again went into the wood to enjoy the early spring. A short time after [311]leaving the road and passing under the trees, she saw a squirrel playing merrily in the top of a tree, jumping from branch to branch, peeping at her with its bright eyes, and then leaping to the next tree. Rita followed, that she might enjoy his graceful sport longer. The little creature sprang on before her, Rita pursued, and without knowing it, still led by the squirrel, reached the middle of the wood, a place where the trees grew very close together, which she had not yet seen. Suddenly she no longer saw the squirrel, and searched everywhere for him with her eyes, unable to imagine where he could be. While turning her head in every direction, she saw at the foot of a large beech a hole, half hidden by moss and large ferns. Rita cautiously approached to peep in, when the treacherous covering of plants gave way under her feet, and with a cry she slipped down the opening. She closed her eyes and thought this would [312]be the end of her. She fell a long, long distance, till it seemed as if she was resting on a warm bosom, and clasped by loving arms. Rita opened her eyes, and what she saw astonished her so greatly that she thought she must be dreaming.

She was standing on the threshold of a lofty, spacious hall, more magnificent than anything she had ever seen or believed possible. The walls were covered with white silk tapestry, countless chandeliers filled the whole space with brilliant light, and she did not know which to admire first: the huge mirrors, the gilded chairs with white silk seats, the tables with mosaic tops inlaid with gems, or the throng of people in glittering uniforms and magnificent costumes who filled the hall. Rita had no time to inspect all this splendor. By her side stood a tall lady with a very proud bearing and a wonderfully beautiful face, dressed in a white silk gown, embroidered with silver threads, and a veil fastened with a diadem on her golden hair, which fell over her back to the edge of her skirt. This lady had caught Rita in her arms when she fell into the depths. She bent the knee before her three times in low curtseys, bowed her head, then rose, took Rita by the hand, and led her into the hall. [313]

[312]

At the moment she crossed the threshold, solemn music sounded, an officer of gigantic height uttered a command, halberds were dropped with a loud noise on the polished floor, and between two ranks of tall soldiers of the guards in splendid uniforms, who stood like walls, [315]Rita walked slowly with her companion through the whole length of the hall to a golden throne at the end, which stood on a platform covered with cloth of gold beneath a purple canopy. The white-robed lady, by a wave of her hand, invited Rita to ascend the three steps of the platform and seat herself upon the throne. When the young girl had taken her place, the music ceased, the lady lifted from a small table, which stood beside the throne, a silk dress, embroidered with silver, which she put on Rita, a blue velvet mantle, lined with ermine, which she threw over her shoulders, and a crown of gold and diamonds the size of a pigeon’s egg, which she set on her head. Then, again bending the knee before her, she said in a voice which sounded like a silver bell, “Welcome to your kingdom, royal mistress.”

She moved aside, and now ladies in rich court dresses, with long trains and brilliant jewels, and gentlemen in uniforms covered with gold lace, wearing swords by their sides and orders on their breasts, approached and paid homage to Rita. The ladies kissed her hand, the gentlemen pressed their lips to the edge of her ermine mantle. About a hundred or more ladies and gentlemen greeted Rita in this submissive manner.

For a long time Rita did not dare to open her lips. At last, when the courtiers had paid their homage, she turned to the white-robed lady standing beside the throne and asked timidly: “Where am I? What does all this mean?” [316]

“You are in your kingdom, royal mistress,” replied the lady, “and your loyal subjects are happy to be permitted to offer you their homage.”

“I don’t understand,” answered Rita, bewildered; “you are mistaken. I am only a poor milliner—”

“Not so, royal mistress,” said the lady; “whatever you may be considered in a foreign country does not matter. Here you are our illustrious young empress, and at heart you know it perfectly well, and have always known it.”

“Then the little gold crown on my shirt—”

“Is the sign of your rank, royal mistress.”

“But explain to me—what does it all mean—who are you?”

The lady made a sign, the guards with clanking steps drew back to the walls of the hall, the courtiers formed a wide semicircle around the room, the ladies in the front row, the gentlemen behind them, and in the midst of a deep silence she began:—

“Royal mistress, I am the White Lady, the attendant fairy of your illustrious family, whose duty it is to watch over all who are of your royal blood. Do not believe that I have neglected this duty. But foes who are more powerful than I have prevented me from performing it as I ought and wished to do. Know that you are the daughter of the emperor and empress of Thule, and their lawful heiress. Here are the portraits of your noble parents. They welcome from their frames their lovely descendant.” [317]

The White Lady pointed with outstretched hand to the wall behind the throne. Rita turned eagerly and saw at the right and left of the purple canopy the life-size portraits of a handsome man in crown and imperial mantle, and a woman who looked like a being from the heavenly world. At the sight she began to weep bitterly, and the whole court sobbed with her. The White Lady waited until she was calm again and then went on:—

“For ten long years your father had reigned gloriously in Thule, like his father, his grandfather, and thirty-three ancestors before them for a thousand years. Then one day the King of the Pole, without any cause, declared war against him and with his army of ugly dwarfs invaded Thule. The Pole King is a great magician, who reigns over the polar bears and the whales, and when he chooses can produce such cold that the air freezes and sends thunderbolts from the northern lights, which kill every living creature. Our regiments could not withstand his thunderbolts and polar bears, our ships could not resist his cold and his whales. He conquered Thule, and your parents could do nothing except fly with you, royal mistress, and their court on their last ship. But even on the sea the wicked wizard pursued them, he conjured up a terrible storm which struck them here, drove their ship on the shore, and wrecked it. The waves swallowed all on board, I was permitted by the higher [318]powers to save only you, royal mistress. This is the sorrowful history of your illustrious family.”

She was silent, and Rita, too, remained silent a long time, for she was much excited by all she heard and saw. After some time she calmed herself and asked: “What is to be done now? Will you not take me back to my kingdom of Thule?”

“Alas!” replied the White Lady, “that is not possible. Between here and your kingdom lie three seas and four broad countries, with soldiers and fortresses on their frontiers, besides five ice mountains, six burning deserts, and seven raging rivers. And even if we crossed all these obstacles on the way to Thule, we should find there the King of the Pole, who would do you some harm.”

“Then must I stay here always?” asked Rita, anxiously.

The White Lady sighed, and the whole court did the same.

Rita did not know what time it was, but she must have been a long while in the throne room, for she began to feel hungry. At first she was ashamed to ask for anything; but when the gnawing in her stomach grew greater, she thought, “I am empress, and have a right to command.” So she said: “Dear fairy, could not I have something to eat? I am very hungry.”

“Royal mistress,” replied the White Lady, sadly, “we have nothing here.” [319]

“Not even a bit of bread?”

“Not even a bit of bread. Your courtiers and your guard need no food, nor your attendant fairy either.”

“Then I must starve to death if I stay here.”

The White Lady lowered her eyes, as if ashamed, and remained silent.

“If this is so,” said Rita, sadly, “I suppose I must leave you.”

As she received no answer, she rose from the throne and slowly descended the steps of the platform. As her foot touched the polished floor, trumpets blared, shouts of command were heard, the guard marched from the sides of the hall to the centre, dropped their halberds with a thundering sound, and formed two motionless ranks, the music again struck up the solemn imperial march, the White Lady clasped Rita by the hand, court-marshals with white wands walked before them, court ladies with long trains followed, and thus the magnificent procession moved toward the entrance. Here all paused as if spellbound; the White Lady let Rita’s hand fall and made three low curtseys before her.

“Will you all take leave of me?” asked Rita, anxiously.

“We must,” replied the White Lady.

“What! Will no one go with me? Must I return to my foster-parents all alone?”

“Unfortunately we cannot change things,” answered the White Lady, sorrowfully. [320]

Rita sighed heavily, embraced the White Lady, who kissed her hair again and again, while the ladies and gentlemen of the court, kneeling around her, pressed their lips to the border of her mantle, and said, “Then farewell to you all.” Tears streamed from her eyes, and she was preparing to pass through the door, which two court-marshals held open before her. At that moment the White Lady said gently, “Pardon me, your Majesty,” and lifted the diamond crown from her head. Rita stopped in astonishment, when she also unfastened the clasp of the ermine-lined blue velvet mantle and removed it from her shoulders.

“You will not even leave me the signs of my rank?” cried Rita.

“It is the order, and we must obey,” replied the White Lady, removing also the wonderful gown of white silk and silver, so that Rita again stood in the plain Sunday clothes of a poor milliner.

“So the magnificence is all at an end,” lamented Rita. “I am no longer an empress, but the foundling, Margarita Bölgebarn.”

“Not so, your Majesty,” answered the White Lady, quickly. “Empress you are, and empress you will remain; no one can rob you of your royal rank. True, you will live among the people of this country unrecognized; but whenever you choose to come here among your faithful subjects, all the honors due your rank will be shown you, and your own eyes will convince [321]you that you are our beloved and revered sovereign.”

Rita still lingered at the door. It seemed to her very hard to leave the brilliantly lighted hall; but she had no choice. Unless she wanted to starve, she must go. So, summoning all her resolution, she crossed the threshold. At the same moment an invisible power seized her like a whirlwind and bore her up with the speed of an arrow. A moment later she was standing under the sunset sky at the edge of the hole at the foot of the great beech tree, and saw on one of its lowest branches the squirrel, which again hopped merrily from tree to tree before her, and led her out of the wood.

It was already dark when she reached home. Though usually they did not trouble themselves much about her, this time they had been anxious, and her foster-mother asked her harshly where she had been roving about so long. Rita excused her absence with gentle words. She thought of her royal rank, and could not help secretly smiling at the poor woman, who, in her ignorance, treated her so rudely. She remembered her throne room, her courtiers, her body-guard, her diamond crown, and found it amusing that she was obliged to sit in a poor workman’s room at a table without a cloth, to a scanty meal of cold sauer-kraut, with peas, black bread, and water, and then go to rest on a straw bed, which she now had for herself, since she richly earned it. [322]

After the secret of her birth and rank had been revealed to her, a change took place in her which even the dull people who surrounded her could not fail to notice. She was even more quiet and reserved than before, yet kind and cordial to every one in a way that her foster-family had never seen among the people of her class. At first her unvarying graciousness vexed her uneducated companions; for they considered it affectation, and answered Rita’s pleasant words scornfully or roughly. But as this did not disturb her, and her manner remained equally gentle and kind, the others were gradually impressed by it and began to regard her with a certain shyness. In the milliner-shop, too, the workwomen and customers noticed Rita’s dignified manner, and the ladies often said to the proprietor, half in jest and half in earnest, that there was something so queenly about the young lady who tried on the bonnets that they scarcely dared to ask her to wait on them.

Rita no longer, in her leisure hours, went down to the shore where the workmen had found her when she was a little girl, but into the wood to the old beech tree. Sitting on the edge of the hole hidden by the moss and ferns, she shut her eyes and let herself slip down. She knew now that two soft arms would carefully catch her. The solemn imperial march always sounded at her appearance, and her courtiers welcomed her with joy. She sat in her magnificent robes, with her diamond [323]crown upon her head, an hour or two on her golden throne among her subjects, while the White Lady told her a thousand things she longed to know: first about her parents, especially her mother, who had been a princess of Swan Land, then of her ancestors, of her country of Thule, its people, manners, and customs. The court ladies sang to her old songs of the greatness of her race, their wisdom in peace and heroic courage in war. Learned chamberlains repeated to her the history of Thule; she was shown dolls in the costume of the people, and pictures of her ancestors’ palace, their castles, cities, and the most beautiful landscapes in her kingdom, till at last she knew everything about Thule as thoroughly as if she had always lived there and knew nothing else. It no longer seemed to her hard to leave her throne and return to the city as a poor milliner. In spirit she always lived in her empire, on Sundays and holidays she was an acknowledged empress amid the splendor of her court, and she bore with a patient smile the life she led during the week, when, plainly clad and unnoticed, she lived among the common people as if she were one of themselves.

Her foster-family gradually remarked that she left them on Sundays directly after dinner, and did not return until the evening, with a reflection of secret joy upon her face like one who has been happy several hours. Her foster-sisters put their heads together and whispered, making all sorts of guesses, which did little [324]honor to Rita. They wanted to find out the secret of her lonely walks, and her foster-brother undertook to follow her unseen. He did follow at some distance into the forest as far as the hole at the foot of the old beech. He did not see the squirrel that sprang before her from bough to bough, for his eyes were fixed upon Rita. Suddenly she vanished, and when he came to the place where he had lost her, he discovered the hole under the moss and ferns. He did not doubt that she had slipped down this hole, but at first he did not think it advisable to go after her. So he sat down on the moss and waited. When, however, an hour, then two hours passed, without any sign of life, he plucked up courage and began to climb down the dark opening. But the sides were very steep, the clumps of grass and moss to which he clung tore away, and amid a hail of clods of earth and stones he fell into the depths.

Soiled with dirt, his whole body covered with bruises and bumps, and his clothes torn, he struck against the door, which flew open at the shock, and rolled into the middle of the throne room. The commander of the body-guard rushed up to him and ordered his soldiers to seize the intruder. But Rita, who recognized the fellow, called loudly, “Halt!”

The marshal of the court explained that he had forfeited his life, but Rita repeated: “Not a hair of his head shall be harmed! Obey your empress!” Then she said to her foster-brother, who was rubbing his [325]aching limbs and staring stupidly around him: “It was very impertinent to follow me. This time I will forgive you. But don’t do it again; my guards would not let you go a second time.” She motioned to the White Lady, who gave an order to the officer of the guard. The soldiers seized the youth, flung him out of the throne room, and left him lying outside of the door. He began with great difficulty to climb up, but the steep walls of earth gave his hands and feet no support, and he always slid down again. At last the White Lady took pity on him, and when he made another attempt to climb, she raised her whirlwind, which seized him and bore him up into the woods.

The youth limped along groaning, lost his way several times, and did not reach the direct road to the city until twilight was closing in. When he reached home, Rita had been there a long time. She had told nothing about the adventure, and was somewhat anxious to hear what he would say of it to the family. When he saw her, he only grinned and said nothing. Was he unwilling to tell the story in her presence? But his mother noticed his soiled and torn clothes and the bloody scratches on his hands, and cried out: “Boy! How you look! What has happened? Have you been fighting?”

“No,” replied the youth, sulkily, “it’s only our dear Rita and her queer taste that are to blame. I wanted to see where she is always running. Now I know. [326]She goes into the woods and jumps down into a deep hole. This leads into a large cave. I leaped after her, but she seems to be more skilful than I am. I fared badly. I almost broke my limbs. The cave appears to get some light through a chink in the rocks on the top. But it is dark, cold, and damp. Rita walks up and down, talking to herself. I think she is playing some kind of a farce, in which she is a princess or empress, and wants no listeners, for they would laugh at her. Don’t worry, Rita, I won’t disturb you again in your fool tricks.”

“That will be better,” replied Rita, smiling and gentle as ever. So her foster-brother had seen nothing—neither the magnificent hall nor the courtiers, neither her imperial robes nor the throne. This surprised her, it is true, but she was glad. It was better that she should remain unrecognized, since she must earn her living as a poor milliner.

Behind her back, her foster-brother told the others that Rita was evidently a little crazy, for he had heard her say plainly, in her cave, that she was an empress, had guards, and similar silly nonsense. The foster-mother replied that it came from the little gold crown embroidered on her shirt, but as her craziness did not seem dangerous, they all thought it would do no one any harm if she was allowed to go on with her folly, and they closed their eyes to her queer fancies.

So Rita lived for several years, during the week a [327]poor workingwoman, on Sundays a great empress, and it did not trouble her at all that she alone knew her secret. She was just twenty-one years old when one day it happened that a handsome young man, whom she had often met on her way from the house to her shop, but without noticing him, came up to her in the street, raised his hat, and said, “Miss Rita, will you allow me to say a few words to you?”

Rita blushed and answered more sternly than was her custom: “I don’t know you. Leave me alone,” and continued her way. The young man stood still, looking after her sorrowfully. She could not help thinking of him all the morning, and though it vexed her that he should have spoken to her in the street, she would have liked to know what he wanted to say to her.

When she went home at noon, she saw, to her astonishment, the young man sitting in her house with her foster-mother. She stood hesitating on the threshold, and the workman’s wife called to her, while the young man respectfully rose from his chair: “Come in, the gentleman won’t eat you. He means fairly.”

The young man now spoke. “Miss Rita,” he said, “I have known you for many months. I have followed you daily, without your noticing it. I ventured to speak to you in the street, because I thought that would be the easiest way. But you did perfectly right to reprove me, for it was not proper. I ought to [328]have done first what I did not think of until later; that is, introduce myself to your parents.”

“But what do you want?” asked Rita, bewildered.

“Miss Rita,” replied the young man, “I love you, and would like to marry you. Will you give me your hand?”

Rita’s heart beat faster, and she lowered her eyes in confusion. “That cannot be done so quickly,” she said, “I do not know you at all—”

“Don’t refuse,” interrupted her foster-mother; “the gentleman is a fine man and a poet.”

“You are a poet?” cried Rita, wonderingly.

“At least I think so,” answered the young man, modestly. “I write poems and have them printed. People buy them, and tell me that life seems easier and the world more beautiful to them when they have read them.”

As Rita grew thoughtful and made no reply, he drew a little book from the pocket of his overcoat and gave it to her, adding: “Please accept this from me, Miss Rita. It contains my verses. Let them speak for me, and permit me to come to-morrow for your answer.”

When with a courteous bow he left the room, the foster-mother told Rita that she ought to accept this handsome and elegant young man; it was a piece of good luck for her, and she would never find anything better. Rita said she must have time to think over so important a matter, and retiring into a corner began to read the poems. They sang of spring and sunshine, [329]of blossoming flowers and nightingales, of human beings who loved each other and would remain faithful in joy and sorrow, of all great and noble things which make the happiness of good people. And as Rita read on, she fancied she heard the old songs of her court singers, and the wise words of her White Lady, and her eyes grew dim till at last she could no longer see the letters plainly.

She thought of the poet all day, and at night she could not sleep. When the next noon he came for his answer, the others went out to leave the two alone, and Rita said: “I have read your poems, and I like them very much. You are really a poet. But do you know who I am?”

“You are the sweetest, most beautiful girl my eyes ever beheld,” he answered warmly, “and if you would become my wife, I should be the happiest man on earth, and would never cease to sing and utter my joy in verse.”

“I am a foundling, and no one knows who my parents were.”

“Your parents were what they were, and you are what you are.”

“I am a poor workingwoman, and shall bring you nothing except what I have on my back.”

“You are yourself a treasure, which no gold in the world can outweigh. We will work and shall not lack the necessaries of life.” [330]

“Give me a little more time to think,” she said gently. “So important a resolve cannot be made in an instant.”

“That is true,” replied the poet; “but meanwhile may I at least see you daily?”

“Yes, you may,” said Rita. Then he kissed her hand and gave her a sheet of paper on which, since the day before, he had written new poems for her, more beautiful than any of the first ones.

Contradictory feelings were struggling in Rita’s soul. She liked the poet, and it seemed to her a happy lot to become his wife. But she thought she ought not to promise him her hand without asking the advice of the White Lady, her only friend in the wide world, and without telling him her secret. She was so impatient that she could not wait for Sunday, but went at once to her wood, without even stopping at the shop to ask permission for an afternoon’s absence. She was in such a hurry that she did not look around once on the way. So she did not see that the poet, as had been his habit for months, had come after dinner into the neighborhood of her house to follow her to the shop and enjoy all the way the sight of her lovely figure. He saw with astonishment that she did not go toward the shop, and that she was walking much faster than usual, so he hastily pursued to find out what she meant to do. Thus he tracked her into the wood, to the old beech tree and the hole half hidden by moss and ferns, where she vanished from his eyes. When he saw her suddenly [331]disappear down the hole, his only thought was that she had met with an accident, and with a cry of terror he ran forward and without hesitation leaped after her. He fell on his feet at the bottom, without doing himself any harm, and saw before him, in the dim light, tall gilded folding doors, from beyond which he heard the clank of arms and solemn music. He resolutely pushed open the door and found himself in the throne room, just at the moment that Rita had taken her seat upon the throne, and the White Lady was clothing and crowning her as an empress. When he saw this, he rushed through the ranks of the guards to the steps of the throne, knelt, and touched his forehead to the floor.

Rita had been unable to keep back a low cry of surprise when she saw the poet. This time, too, the guards seized him, but Rita waved her hand and commanded them to release him. Descending the steps, she raised the poet. He did not dare to look at her, and only murmured: “I always suspected it. You are of royal birth. Graciously forgive my presumption in having dared to love you.”

“So you see my throne and my crown, my hall and my courtiers?” asked Rita.

The poet looked at her in astonishment, and replied: “Why shouldn’t I? The splendor dazzles me, it is true, but it does not wholly blind me.”

Rita, turning to the White Lady, said: “He is a [332]poet, and he wants to marry me. What do you advise me to do?”

“Your Majesty,” replied the faithful fairy, “he is of a good race. He has the eagle eyes, which see secret things. He is an aristocrat, for he is a poet. If you love him as he does you, marry him.”

Rita blushed deeply and cast down her eyes, the White Lady took her hand and laid it in the poet’s, the courtiers burst into loud cheers, the music struck up a joyous march, and the portraits of the emperor and empress of Thule, on both sides of the throne, began to shine wonderfully. The court-marshal bent the knee before the poet and said, “Your Highness, by your engagement to our illustrious imperial mistress, you become Prince Consort, and have a right to the highest honors.” He gave a low order to a page, and instantly several court lackeys appeared with purple velvet cushions, on which lay a gold embroidered uniform, the ribbon of an order, a sword, and gold spurs, and placed them all on the floor at the foot of the throne. Rita asked, smiling, “Will you put these on?”

“I dare not—the honor is too great—not to-day,” answered the poet in bewilderment. Then in a lower tone he added, “Your Majesty—beloved Rita—since you are willing to give me the greatest happiness—since I am your betrothed husband—I will venture to make one request—”

“What is it?” asked Rita, kindly. [333]

“Send your courtiers away—let us be a moment alone—that I may embrace you for the first time as my bride.”

“There is no solitude for an empress,” said Rita; “let us go.”

Rising, she walked, leaning on her future husband’s arm, amid the usual honors, to the door, left her imperial robes in the hands of the White Lady, and a moment later, with the poet, was at the entrance of the hole. Here, under the rustling branches of the old beech, seen only by the faithful squirrel, Rita was clasped in her lover’s arms and exchanged the first kiss.

The poet was dazed by all he had seen and experienced, but he did not venture to question his bride. Rita guessed what was passing in his mind, and on their way home told him all. Only she begged him to keep it secret, for if he repeated the story, people would merely laugh at them.

The betrothal was celebrated at the foster-parents’, and the wedding soon followed, with two celebrations,—one in the secret empire, and one among ordinary mortals. Rita left her work place and opened a milliner’s shop herself, and the poet, in his happiness, wrote the most beautiful poems and became very famous. During the first year of their marriage, they often went to the wood, and the young husband found great pleasure in sitting in his princely robes upon the golden throne, beside his imperial consort. But at the end of a year [334]the stork brought a little child, and for some time Rita could not go out, and her poet did not know whether he could appear at court alone. After a month Rita went to the wood again for the first time, taking with her her baby, on which she had put the little shirt with the gold crown, which her foster-father had given to her on her wedding day, and descended to the secret empire to present her child to the courtiers. There was great rejoicing and paying of homage, and the White Lady took the little one in her arms, caressed it, and whispered ardent wishes for its happiness. When her faithful subjects had grow calm again, Rita addressed them in a very grave tone: “Noble lords and ladies,” she said, “we shall see each other to-day for the last time. My work, my child, my husband, claim all my hours, and I no longer have any half-days of leisure to spend in your midst. Your loyalty touches me, but unfortunately it is of no use. Return to Thule, make your peace with the King of the Pole, and remember me faithfully, as I shall always remember you. And now, farewell.”

The ladies and gentlemen fell upon their knees. All were sobbing. Tears rolled down the cheeks of even the old guards. The White Lady, weeping softly, clasped Rita in her arms and would not let her go. She gently released herself, took up her little child again, gave her hand kindly to all, and slowly approached the door. Here she cast one last look at the court, the hall, her crown, and her royal robes, kissed the White Lady [335]for the last time, and in an instant was in the upper world.

At the foot of the old beech, Rita said sadly to her husband: “The sacrifice is made. The imperial splendor is over forever.”

“No,” replied the poet, bending the knee before her. “To me you are and always will be the empress, as I felt and recognized you before you had revealed yourself to me in your magnificence, and so you always will be to your children also, now and forever.”

And so it was. Wreaths were afterward bestowed on the poet, which he laid at the feet of his wife. They became prosperous and distinguished, had numerous children, reared them to be excellent men and women, whom they taught that they must be better and more competent than ordinary people; and though no one of them became an emperor or an empress, they were all such estimable citizens, that, after many, many years, when Rita was dead, the grateful city placed a monument on the spot upon the shore where little Margarita Bölgebarn had been found. [337]