By his wisdom, his patience, and his example he had brought about, in the fullness of time, the miraculous metamorphosis of which he had dreamed.

The Prince was his creation.

An indefatigable toiler, presiding, for the highest ends, over a great nation--that was his achievement; and he looked upon his work and it was good.

But had the Baron no misgivings?
Did he never wonder whether, perhaps, he might have accomplished not too little but too much?
How subtle and how dangerous are the snares which fate lays for the wariest of men! Albert, certainly, seemed to be everything that Stockmar could have wished--virtuous, industrious, persevering, intelligent.

And yet--why was it--all was not well with him?
He was sick at heart.
For in spite of everything he had never reached to happiness.