This occupied a large share of her thoughts, but a still greater one was filled with the yearning for her John, of whom, in spite of many inquiries, she could hear nothing.

When, in her quiet home life, the monotony of her days oppressed her more heavily, she often remembered Ems, and the pleasures and attention which the next summer there would bring tier.  Now that the great, passionate emotions which had been devoted to others were at rest, she began to think more of her own person.  It seemed desirable to show herself to advantage, and though she longed for her recovery above all for the sake of her art and the pleasure which its exercise afforded her, she was already secretly thinking how she could use it to restore and obtain satisfaction for her paralyzed self-esteem.

In consequence of the victory of St. Quentin, Brussels was filled with festal joy; but Barbara took very little part in the numerous festivities which followed one another, and again went to Ems.

When she returned, much benefited, her first visit was to the Dubois house in the park.  Unfortunately, it was futile; but when, a few weeks before the battle of Gravelines, she repeated it for the second time, she met the couple, now advancing in years, out of doors, and saw that some good fortune had come to them.

Usually she had always been received here with a certain shade of embarrassment, but to-day her coming seemed to please Herr Adrian.  From the great arm-chair, which he now never left, he held out his hand to her, and Frau Traut’s merry eyes looked a glad welcome.

After the first greetings, they eagerly expressed their joyful amazement at the clear tones of her voice.  Then Frau Dubois exchanged a significant glance with her husband, and now Barbara learned that a letter had arrived from San Yuste that very morning, which contained little except pleasant news of his Majesty and John.

While speaking, Adrian drew from his doublet the precious missive, showed it to the young wife as cautiously as a fragile ornament which we are reluctant to let pass out of our hands, and said in an agitated voice: 

“The writer is no less a personage than Dona Magdalena de Ulloa.  May Heaven reward her for it!”

Barbara gazed beseechingly into his wrinkled face, and from the inmost depths of her heart rose the cry:  “Oh, let me see it, for I—­you know it —­I am his mother!”

“So she is,” said the old man in a tone of assent, nodded his long head, whose hair was now snow-white, and glanced questioningly at his wife.  The answer was an assent.

Adrian clasped his chin—­during the period of his service he had always worn it smooth-shaven, but the white stubble of a full beard was now growing on it—­in his emaciated hand, and asked Barbara if she understood Spanish.

Her knowledge of it was very slight; but Frau Traut, who, like her husband, had mastered it during the long years of intercourse with the Castilian court, now undertook to put the contents of the letter into German.