urgent summons, raised the lid of her trunk, tossed the stockings,
bodices and shoes, that came into her way, out on the floor, and did not
rise until she had found a few sheets of writing-paper which she had
laid, before leaving her father's castle, among the rest of her property.

As she rose from her kneeling posture, she was seized with giddiness,
but still kept her feet, carried to the table first the white sheets and
a portfolio, then the large inkstand that had already stood several days
in her room, and seated herself beside it.

Leaning far back in her chair, she began to write. The book that served
as a desk lay on her knee, the paper on the book. Creaking and pausing,
the goosequill made large, stiff letters on the white surface. Henrica
was not skilled in writing, but to-day it must have been unspeakably
difficult for her; her high forehead became covered with perspiration,
her mouth was distorted by pain, and whenever she had finished a few
lines, she closed her eyes or drank greedily from the water-pitcher that
stood beside her.

The large room was perfectly still, but the peace that surrounded her was
often disturbed by strange noises and tones, that rose from the dining-
hall directly under her chamber. The clinking of glasses, shrill
tittering, loud, deep laughter, single bars of a dissolute love-song,
cheers, and then the sharp rattle of a shattered wine glass reached her
in mingled sounds. She did not wish to hear it, but could not escape and
clenched her white teeth indignantly. Yet meantime the pen did not
wholly stop.

She wrote in broken, or long, disconnected sentences, almost incoherently
involved. Sometimes there were gaps, sometimes the same word was twice