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Beatrice still, blindly, devotedly; the sight of
her had roused him from his life in death. He
had learnt that she was free, could still be his,
and yet he hesitated. All would he forgive and
forget, but could he forget with the child daily
under his eyes? Perhaps he might die in this
fever ; and that was his one hope and wild desire,
that the child might die. He inquired constantly
as to its welfare and if he heard it was worse, a
fierce pleasure would shoot through his heart.

At length, one day, when he was returning
from his work, he met Beatrice in the little
wood behind the house. Her face had become
thin and drawn with care, her eyes were sunk
and red with weeping, her whole aspect piteous.
The nurse had sent her into the air, declaring
that if she did not go out, she too would be ill,
and then what would become of the boy. She
moved along the walks like a sad spirit, and
when she saw the tall figure approaching from
the opposite side, she started and turned paler.

How is the boy?" asked Paul, coming up
to her.

" He is dying, I fear; and O! I cannot bear
to lose him." She rung her hands in her
agony of distress.

When Paul saw her grief he felt ashamed of
his wicked hope. Was that true love, he asked
himself, to wish a grief thus intense to her
whom he adored above all else in the world?
No, and it was not worthy of a true heart.

"Let me see him," he said, suddenly. " I
have had much experience of illness during my
lonely life."

She led the way. and he followed. As they
opened the door, the nurse motioned them to
silence, her finger on her mouth. " He sleeps,"
she whispered, "we must not wake him. This is
the crisis, '' she murmured, turning to the forester;
"either he will pass away in this slumber, or

They softly approached the bedside. Beatrice
kneeled down and buried her head in the
clothes. She was praying. The nurse slipped
softly out of the room. Paul stood at the foot
of the cot and looked on. The child's little face,
which Paul had last seen so bonnie and bright,
was worn and thin; his breath was drawn
so softly that at times it seemed to come no
more; one small arm lay on the coverlet, its
thin hand was clasped in its mother's grasp.
She remained on her knees immovable, he knew
not how long; only by her deep-drawn sighs
he could see how earnestly she was wrestling
and imploring for the little life that lay there
so passively.

The blinding tears welled into his eyes, the
first tears he had shed since he had learnt her
untruth towards him.

Thus the night passed; he still standing;
she kneeling. When the first cold streak of
dawn fell into the room the child awoke.

"Mamma!" he said, feebly.

Suddenly she arose. "My child!" she
exclaimed. "Saved! Thanks be to God."

Amen!" answered a deep voice at the foot
of the bed.

She started. "Paul, you here?"

"I have been here all night, and my prayers
have gone up to Heaven with yours for the
recovery of your boy. May I say our boy?"

She disengaged one hand from the child's
neck, and gave it to Paul. He took it and
pressed an ardent kiss on its attenuated fingers,
and then he kissed the child.

"You must go now, dear Paul," said Beatrice,
softly: " we must not excite the boy."

May I not stay?" he pleaded, his tone
gentle and the old tender look in his eyes.

"Not now, Paul, not just now. We will
meet soon."

"Never to be parted again?"

"Pray Heaven no!"

Six years later, a lady and her companion
visited the Brockenfeld and put up at Oderbruck.
The lady was a sad embittered woman,
who neither loved nor was loved in this world.
Walking in the Forester's little garden after
dinner, she saw him sitting there, smoking a
long pipe; by his side a bright woman who
held a child upon her knee, with whom the
father was playing and which crowed merrily
at him. A little beyond, a bigger boy was
coachman to a small girl, harnessed as his
horse. They were running in full gallop
towards their parents, unaware of the presence
of strangers.

"See, papa!" cries the elder of the two,
"Maggie and I have been for a long trot, and
have brought back mamma some of her own, own
flowers." They laid a small bunch of wild
camelias before their mother.

At that moment Paul Smitt perceived the
ladies, and rising politely, accosted them, saying
he hoped they had been content with the very
frugal hospitality it was in his power to offer

"Oh, quite," said the lady. " Is that your
family, Herr F├Ârster? You all look very happy:
more happy than I have seen most people look
in the town. How do you manage to exist
up here? And to be happy?"

"One is happy wherever one's beloved are,"
he answered, fervently.

The reply was unexpected, curiously solemn,
and sounded strange to the Squire's wife.


THE songs the people sing in Italy are very
different from the doggrel verses we are
accustomed to hear at the Italian Opera. They are
real songs, and tell us something of the habits
and customs of the peoplesomething, too, of
their aspirations. They are like wild flowers.
They have sprung up everywhere. No one
knows who wrote them; you might as well ask
who wrote the songs of the linnet.

Almost all their songs are songs of the
affections: cradle songs, serenades, and dirges,
which have been handed downmaybe with
alterationsfrom generation to generation.
Every pretty girl has her poet-laureate; every
village has its improvisatore. Many, many,