son's entreaty. Her whole former life passed before her.

How much she had sinned and erred! But all that she had done for the man
to whom the posthorses were swiftly bearing her seemed to her free from
reproach and blameless. Every act and feeling which he had received from
her had been the best of which she was capable.

Not a day, scarcely an hour, had she forgotten him; for his sake she had
endured great anguish willingly, and, in spite of his mute reserve--she
could say so to herself--without any bitter feeling. How she had
suffered in parting from her child she alone knew. Fate had raised her
son to the summit of earthly grandeur and saved him from every clanger.
Providence had adorned him with its choicest gifts. When she thought of
the last account of him from the Duke of Ferdinandina, it seemed to her
as if his life had hitherto resembled a triumphal procession, a walk
through blooming gardens.

What could he mean by the "woe" after the "weal"?

John was to her the embodied fulfilment of the most ardent prayers. The
blessings she had besought for him, and for which she had placed her own
heart on the rack, had become his-glory and splendour, fame and honour.

She had not been able to give them to him, and undoubtedly he owed much
to his own powers and to the favour of his royal brother, but Barbara was
firmly convinced that her prayers had raised him to his present grandeur.

What more could now be given to him? Everything the human heart desires
was already his. His happiness was complete, and during recent years
this, too, had cheered her heart and restored her lost capacity for the