Wilhelmine, in unspeakable anguish, sprang after her, holding her fast, with both hands clinching the crackling wings.

She implored her sister to take her with her, while the tears ran in streams down her cheeks.

"You know that I love you," she cried, "and my only pleasure is to see you every day.

Take me with you, and I will serve and obey you, and be your waiting-maid." Wilhelmine held the wings firmly with a convulsive grasp, and continued to weep and implore, until Sophie at last laughingly yielded.
"Well, come, if you will be my waiting-maid; no one combs hair as well as you, and your simple style of arranging it suits me better than any other.

Come, come, it shall be arranged, you shall be my waiting-maid." The pictures of memory changed, and Wilhelmine saw herself in the midst of splendor, as the poor little maid, unnoticed by her brilliant sister, the beloved of the Russian Count Matuschko.