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December  “u

 

 

 

 

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 BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, igréI-WILLIAl/l ST.,-N:  N W PRICE.  CEIJTé

 

 

BY EMILIE’ FL YGARE CARLEN.

CHAPTER I.
THE BROTHERS.

DURING the warmest hours of a scorching afternoon in July of the
year 18—, two young men had sought the cool shelter of a_mountain
grotto on the beach, where, as little b0 's, they used to 0011ng to the
waves their tiny boats, rigged from the ark of trees.

The young men were brothers; they had lately returned home to pass
their summer holidays in the society of a. beloved mother.

The elder of the two, Edwin Wallenberg, who, about six months be—
fore, had entered upon his duties as rector in a provincial town not far
distant, had already attained the haven of his hopes in aprofessional
point of view; while Victor, who was in the law, and was still obliged to
place “assistant” before his title of District Judge, was to all appear-
ances, very far from any haven.

The evening was approaching. The dry fog which had long prevented
the surrounding objects from coming out in their true lights, be an
gradually to disperse, and a bright blue sky shone over a bright b no
lake, confined, as it were, by a belt of tall gentle—waving rushes, whose
variegated green contrasted
charmingly against the white
sand of the beach. And
against the white sand again
contrasted the dark frag-
ments of rock, amid which
our young friends had sought
their Vikiug’s cave.

“ Reach that to me,Victor;
you sleepy fellow, do you not
see that I want to light my
cigar!”

With these words the young
rector raised himself upon
one arm,and stretched out his
hand toward the match-box.

“ Now, which of us has
shown himself the most
sleepy?” answered Victor. as
he smilineg handed his I V ,
brother the matchbox in ‘  ~ - J I
question. “I, who havcprc— ‘ ” ~ I

-rved the sacred fire, or you,
who have permitted it to be
extinguished?”

“ Eh, What? Do not (lis-
turb me—I am meditating.
I am enjoying at this moment

uite a spiritual life—the de—
licious life of the gods. This
diminutive mossy bank, and
this pillow of true northern
grey-stone, represent to me
the heavenly kin dom, while
the soft n01se o the water,
rolling between the pebbles,
sounds to my ears like the
music of the seraphs.”

“And 1 would willingly
sacrifice a third of my pros—

ects of advancement within
he next two years, if “'0
were only so fortunate as to
hear another kind of music.
Is it not about this hour
that your mysterious beauty
leaves her living tomb, to
breathe forth her sorrow in
music?”

“  I”

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Iii Milieu-x...” ,

“It is very well for you to sa ‘bah ’—~you who are already in the
kingdom of heaven. But I-this cliff is rather too short for a couch—the
deuce, the moment I mOVe, I crack my skull. There are certain little
inconveniences which destroy all chances of obtaining comfort upon a
true northern pillow i"

“ Every comfort has its hidden discomfort. If you were a philosopher

on need not have slept upon a grey-stone to have gained that piece of
Enowled emhowever, you read little or nothing.”

“On,t e contrary, am at present on the best road to improve
m If. ’ ‘

yPrim—ah! You are studying philosophy 3”

“ Rightly guessed.”

“So you are reading Hegel?”

“Pooh!”

“ Schelling, then?"
“ Pooh!”

“Or, perhaps, one of our Swedish philosOphers?”

“I am studying Paul de Kock.”

“Charmin philosophy, upon my word. I wish I had my riding-whip
here, I won] teach you what it was to jest with such an important
persona e as the rector, Mr. Wallenberg.”

“ Wel , let us make peace, and return to our widow, Maria Elenora
the second.”

“Very good.”

“ Which of us two shall take upon himself to console her?”

“Of course I must, as I am a clergyman. The only time I saw her in
church inspired me with
' , R I , abundant inclination to set
“i l ,l ‘  Ii “ill  I about it at once.”

I I ; ’ ' I I j - '- all ‘u “I don’t doubt it, seein

l , p -‘ ,l‘  z i, if that I, who have never ye
. ' ‘ beheld her, feel that it is in-
' cumbent on me to fulfill the
same duty. I should not be
surprised if she did not rather
require legal assistance.

“They say she has inherit-
ed no lawsuit from her hus-
band.”

“ Has she then inherited
anything from him?”

“Nothing, as faras I know,
with the exception of this
property here; where, they
say, she shuts herself up in a
room, hung with black, and

ives way to the most fran-
ic grief.”

“ And yet her widowhood
has already lasted eight
months."

“Well and so you are of
the opinion that a spiritual
comforter—”

“ N o—no; there is no doubt
that the sweet angel is in far
greater need of a worldly
one. But tell me, has she
never been seen except at
church, and during these
mysterious sails on the lake?”

“ Never!”

“ And does she always
steer her course toward t e
lonely Hazel Islands?”

“Not alwa s, but very
frequently. S ehas an ob
ject of interest there.”

“ For her heart?”

“It is a charitable object.
The three or four fishermen
and their families, who in-
habit the Hazel Islands, are
almost as good as severed
from the rest of the world;
hence she has double merit in

 

 

v J -_

 

“I am confoundedly curi-
Gus!”
“Bah!” F

W

 

“YOU WILL no ME A FAVOR, Ian. WALLENBERG,” SAID rum CHARMING
WIDOW, “ BY nor REPEATING THIS VISIT TO ME.”

 

seeking these poor people,who
have not the means of going
to market themselves.”

u, --...—..‘» —

     
    

 

  
  

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THE BIROTIIERS’ BET. »\

 

“Faith, if that be a merit, it mightserve as an example;
in w 911‘ case—3’ _

“ at won’t do! Yours would be a suspicious kind of
charity. Plainly speaking it would be spying.”

“Something like it, it. must he confessed. If we are
going to act, above all things .let us act. cliivalrously,
then—” I .

“ Hush, hush ! By heavens I fancy I hear the strokes
of an car. What a piece of luck it this should happen to
he, one of the evenings that—" ‘

lnstcad of answering. Victor Jumped up, and hastened
out upon the plateau, which was immediately before the
month of the mountain grotto.
“You imprudent fellow!” exclaimed Elwin, “ can‘t
you understand that i._' it he her, and she perceive: us,
there will be no S()1“ll;.(lt‘. llere, place yourself l)"lllllti
this ‘jrec, then we shall see through a sort of j;.lr;>iisie.”

“ All right, it is famous here; but; I shall be frantic if
our heroine take us for tools."

“ Or if we take ourselves for fools," answered the rector,
laughing.

I 'R * * * 7‘5 * 9k * *

The strokes of the our eame nearer and nearer, but as
the promontory prevented the two gentlemen from seeing
what was on the ot her side. they were. forced to curb their
eagerness tor a few minutes. During these minutes, in
which their mutual impatience vented. itself differently,
according to their respective dispositions, we will devote a
few words to the. description of them.

The rector, who had retainul an unshaken calmness in
his demeanor, notwithstanding that in his countenance
curiosity was dis-tine; ly to he read—was a small, tair man,
with handsome, agreeable features. llis blue eyes reflected
a thoughtful spirit, gifted with serious rather than lively
ideas, but the somewhat protruding upper lip, shaded with
a yellowish, silky-limking mustache. had rather a stubborn
east, which proved that the youngr man was not so thor-
oughly llexihle amt yielding as—hy the tirst glance at his
more etfeniinatc than manly countenance—0110 would have

. been apt to fame '. i

Victor was: head taller than his brother, but did not
possess that perfect elegance of figure whicliwas to be ob—
served in each movement of the rector; on the other hand,
in mind and body, he was full of life, activity. and man-
liness. lie was of a darker complexion than Edwin, and
had bright eyes, which sparkled with gaiety. llis brow—
except when constant work at times wrinkled it—vvas as
smooth as ivorv, and contrasted well with the long, dark,
auburn-colored hair, which nature had curled with much
greater taste than the artificial locks of the rector.

, ,‘Also, in Victor’s open countenance, goodness was the
principal expression; but an eye which was accustomed to
penetrate the surface, would have found in his ph ysiognom y
a considerable amount of self-love, as well as the traces of
more violence than solidity of feeling.

He could scarcely stand still a second, and'in his joy
and 8111' rise had almost exclaimed aloud, when the long-

’ expect boat at leii tli doubled the point, and a. charming
vision presented itse f to their eyes. '

‘ It was quite a fairy skiff, rowed h' a young boy, who

' seemed to be permitted to steer just where he pleaSed.

The bark contained. also another person, a word of com-
mand from whose mouth would have been most becomin ;
.but this person, a lovely youn- woman, dressed in blue '
from head to foot, sat immova ie at the stern of the boat,
gazin down into the water, which faithfully reflected her
grace ul image. 1

It would be difficult to find a more charming creature
t an this fair (young widow, whose heart, it was said, was

tally crushe .by despair. Her level li‘ht brown eyes

a cred to indicate a soul already wed ed 0 Heaven, and
i t ie earthly dwelling of this pui'e spirit seemed t‘é be form-
ed entirely of ethereal material. 5 -

 

“ Now, have I said too much?” asked the rector, as he
pointed to the boat. “To judge from this sub"ime, sor-
rowful countenance, may we not believe the report which
has been circulated?”

“ What report?” inquired Victor, without withdrawing

his gaze, from the captivating forni.,

“That she, like the consort of Gustavus Adolphus,
preserves the heart of her deceased husband; she keeps it,
they say, embalmed in a locked silver casket.”

“Ali, 3. second Maria Elenora. Upon my honor, this
name suits hurt But I hope that she Will not continue this
hallucination longer than may befit Such alovel young
woman. The consort of Gustavus .Adolphus con (1 never
have found his equal.
tl? ,xid ow here, it would be doing fate an injustice to oubt
her good star. Are there not dozens of husbands such as
hers was 1’”

" I know nothing about him; but since she grieves 80in—
tcnsely for him. it is of very little consequence to what
class he belonged. The main point is, that he governs her
as much in death as he (lid in life.”

" To think that so charming a woman should he wears
ing herself out. by such inconsolahle grief. Has no one
ever made. an attempt to console her?”

“ How should such an idea occur to any one in a neighs
horhood like this, which can not boast; 01 one single pass-
able—scarcely presentable—male creature. lint, look,
what is that_.~he had under her shawl? .\ guitar!” '

“ Yes, it is indeed. Ah, she brings it f<.ii'tli——enehaiit—
ress, if you only knew that you had other audience besides
the mountains and the waves——” '

“ Let us see it—”

“ Will you be silent?”

“ llusli l”

CHAPTER II.
Wl'l‘llIN six WEEKS.
Just ris the boat came opposite the plateau, the young
Widow drew off her black gloves, and her snowy white fin-
gers wandered over the strings of the guitar, in sad, touch-
ing chords. , '
Then SllUJ‘tlll her large, melancholy eyes along the banks,

and as no human being was to be seen, She OPCIlCd her ’

beautiful coral lips, and sang, in a full and melodious
voice, some verses of a pathetic old ballad,'in which the
lover tries to forget, in poetr , the grief IIItO Which the
t'aithlessness and desertion 0 her beloved have plunged
her.

Long after the boat had disappeared, and the song had
died away, in their mind’s eye th: young men saw a. mass
of fair ringlets peeping from beneath a black lace bonnet,
and their ears retained as long the $01108 Of this tender
lament.

“ 1 will try if I can find an opportunity of speaking to
her,” said the rector, with emotion. . ~

“’ I am firmly determined to see her and to Speak to her,”
cried Victor, imliotuously. “ And, 7’ 110 ilddt‘d: With unblushl

.ing confidence, “ I will win her, for though I have beheld

her biit ten iniiiutes,.1 am in love with her; not like a. tool,

as they say in the language of the present da , but ,as a. .

knight of the times of yore, who would have ought with

a dragon in order to have gained the treasure which he

guarded.”
.“Very grand, but softly, softly, I am not exactly a
dragon yet.”

 
  

But with respect to this prett lit- ‘ i

“ Nonsense,” exclaimed Victor, intérrupting his brother. ii

“ With all your philosophy and phlegmatic odliness it is"

'not possible for you to comprehend love of this description.

Besiides', you‘must be aware, if we were rivals, that—if
“ You are as mm as over.

under.”

But Iliave also in vanity;'~'
and let me tell you I see no reason why it shou d knock"

  
 

l
u.
i

“ Yen can do just as you please with your feelings, they
obey you, and you govern them as yourself, according to
forms and reason; but I cannot govern mine, and I declare
to you that this woman with whom you yourself have but

I just filled my imagination, quickly though she has taken
' possession of it, will remain forever in my heart.”

“But,” replied the rector. “suppose I also thought of
taking the trouble to win this mysterious widow; how can
you fanc that I would give in without a struggle? No,

 no, my ear V'ctor, your boldness amuses me, and pro-
vokes me to cut you out.”
' “ Well, then, let each of us try for himself.”

“Sobe it; we start on equal grounds. Let me see, I
have very nearly two months before me.”

“ But I have not more than two weeks; the affair must
be decided within that time,” said Victor.

Edwin smiled dubiously. '

“I tell you,” continued his brother, “ it must be de-
cided. Shall we bet? Before six weeks are at an end this
enchanting being shall have determined to live for—”

“ For you?”

“ Yes, for me.”

“You will lose, and lshall do my best to prove it to
you.”

“Do what you please. A voice within me whispers to
me to be comforted. She will not resist me, because Cupid
himself will incline her toward me.”

i ' The rector smiled again in the same quiet, compas-
-‘ sionate manner, which is so exasperating to sanguine dis-
positions. '

“Oh, how I hate that smile of yours!” cried Victor.
“ It is' a kind of poisoned weapon, which your stolid,
prosaic persons make use of merely to have the pleasure of
wounding and annoying others.”

“ You are becoming quite foolish, dear Victor; it is ab-
surd to think of betting upon the possession of a woman
of whom 'ou know literally nothing.”

I “ Do I inrow nothing of her?”
“ Almost as good as nothing.”
.“ I know enough to an" lien a lively feeling in her

“ Ah, indeed.”

“ She is as beautiful as the most lovely of God’s angels.”

“ Whom you have seen, I iresume ?”

“ Pure and sacred as the Sigh of devotion which the ar-

tist consecrated to the Madonna of his dreams.”
’. “ Ah, now you are going on capitall I.” .

f‘ She suffers, she is unhappy, and she weeps; charming
«creature, alone with your grief and your recollections,
H should you be left to pine forev r?”

 1 “ But have the goodness not to forget that she wishes to
' be alone with her grief and her recollections, that she has
‘w , escaped from the city, from friends, from s 'mpathy, to
I Z." hide herself in this out-oi-thc-way corner, w ich, during
 -.  the life-time of her husband, she never visited.”
'  , ,“ That she does .: i is a'further proof of her worth. But
 ' no sorrow can last forever, and it is time that this one were
moderated.”
.' .“ Well, let it be as you wish! You fix six weeks, I
, 5, ’ say two months; and if at the end of our period there a -
'  ‘ pears to be any chance of 'our succee mg, I Will Wllll‘ g y
7.give up my pretensions. f, on the contrary, at the e? se
of the six weeks, you have progressed no farther than I,
‘ 'then you must give- up all claims, and leave the field
, to me.” . ‘ ~

“A la bonne item's, I am contented.”

' Victor held out his hand, and the rector classed it.

And between them thus the matter was settle .

 

 
 

  

   

I

 

' CHAPTER III.
AT,HOME.

 1 nAN hour later the two brothers entered their mother’s

THE Bearlzmrs' BET. ' ' .

 

Mrs. Gertrude Wallenburg, the widow of it landed pro-
prietor, who had left her a comfortable little fortune, was
alady who certainly could lay claims to being nothing
more than a good-hearted, sensible woman, and a most
excellent mother. "

Through her care and management her sons had received
asuperior education, and if by her exertions she could
now have procured for each a rich and beautiful wife, she
would have been onl too glad. '

“Do you know wnit piece of news I have heard, my
dear boys?” she said, as soon as she perceived the two young
men.

“That r e has risen‘ in price, I suppose, dear mother,”
answered 13 e rector, as he gayly drew his mother’s hand
from her sewing, and folded it in his own.

“ Oh, no, my thoughts are far from my rye at present;
besides, Tonerc has not yet come back from the town.”

“ Well, then, what may it be?”

“You must know that the widow, the lady who lives at
Tysselvik, yonder—hut gracious! my dear Victor,” ex-
claimed the worthy danie, interrupting herself, “ you look
so red, and so strange, I verily believe you have got the
fever.”

“ Yes, dear mother, he looks very ill, does he not?” said
Edwin, ill-naturcdly. “But do not be afraid, it is merely
the heat which has sent the blood mounting to his ‘ head. ’

“ My dear, kind mother, do not listen to this nonsense.
I am not unwell, but I shall become so from curiosity if
you do not immediately tell me all you know about the
W i dow. ”

“That kind of curiosity does not hurt the health, my
child,” said Mrs. Wallenberg, smiling, as, with maternal
pride, she gazed from one son to the other.
curious too, Edwin?” she added.

“Oh, -I shall be most happy to hear a lit“: piece ‘21
gossip, for nothing you would tell eonlrl Le ill-naturedly
meant.” .

“ Well, then, you shall hear. Mrs. N orlin. of Kumlaby,
was here this afternoon, she had the whole affair from the
fountain-head itself.”

“ The whole affair!” repeated the young men.

$‘ Yes, Mrs. Norlin’s aunt has a cousin residing in 0—.

Koping.” -

“ Dear mother, in Heaven’s name pass over every 
.llitt does not refer to the subJect in question.”

“ V cry well, you impatient creatures, I will not
n story in the least. In plain language, then, our beau-
.iiiiil little widow was forced. for the sake of his pitiful
:old, to marry a certain Bendelvik, a man in business,
.le0, however, possessed large properties in difierent parts
of the countr , but the day on which she was led to the
alter she near y lost her reason.”

“ Ah, ah!” said Victor, as he and his brother exchanged
a significant look. “So she also stands in the romantic
light of a sacrifice; it is to be hoped that it won’t come
out at last that it is a lover, and not a husband that she 18
lamenting.” '

“ No, no,” cried the mother eagerly, “ her grief is really
for her husband.” I '

“ Is that certain P” . .

‘fPerfectly so. They were married four years; in’ 191
first two years their behavior was so cold toward each other
that every one wondered how they could hear; such an ex-
istence, but in the third year, without any one being able
to discover the cause, a great change took place. The lady
was like a transformed person, so also the gentleman; ten~
derness and friendshi grew u between them, and this
happ‘gstate of affairs - asted until his death.”

“ hat then hap ened?” asked Victor. , i '

“ Then—I have t is from the same source—her grief at
his loss had nearly caused her a severe illness, and In order
to escape the vain consolation of her friends, she withdrew
here, to this secluded spot; ‘where, if you, niy‘.childrcn,.

s

“Are you not

   
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
  
 
 
  
   
    
    
  
    
  
   
 
  
  
 
 
   
   
  
    
    
      
      
    
       
       
        
   
      
    
     
     
     
      
       
        
    
      
       
 
   
   
    
    
       

   

  
 

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THE BRO THERS’ BIT.

 

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had not by chance come, she would not have seen a single
male bein .” .

“ Yes, ut what is the good of seeing presentable male
beings, if she obstinately rsists in her sorrow?” suggested
Edwm. “ It is now near y eight or nine months since she
became a widow.“~

“ She might be allowed to mourn a year."

“ But what of her lover?”

“ About twelve months after she became a wife,” con-
tinued Mrs. Wallenberg, “ he engaged himself to another

'rl, and is doubtless long since married.”

“What a des )icable fellow to be able to forget such a
splendid woman." murmured Victor.

“You speak as if you had seen her,” said the mother;
“have you done so?"

“ This afternoon for the first time.”

“Did she also see you?”

“ No, she saw neither of us. Edwin and I were to-

ether; but Edwin, who always comes in for every piece of
uck, has seen her also in church!”

“ Very true: we sat opposite to her, and she twice fixed
her 0 cs upon him.”

“ goubthSS more chance,” muttered Victor, unintention-
ally betraying his annoyance, as he left the room.

“ Victor already regards you with some bitterness. Avoid
rivalship, my children, it produces evil conse uenees.”

“Oh, no, mother, not with our peaceful ( ispositions~
but to which of us two would you give your best wishes?”

“ To neither.”

“ How so?”

“ If you both wish the same thing, which both could not
obtain, I should wish that you were both obliged to give it
up. I could not bring my heart to see the one suffer for
the other.”

“ You decide as a good mother ought to decide; how-
ever, I think that we shall not trouble you much about mak—
ing a choice.”

CHAPTER IV.

THE Fl RST STRUGG Ll“).

“I SAY, in the onset, shall We commence operations .in
Common. or do you consider it best each to act for him-
self?” With these words Edwin entered his brother’s
room, which adjoined his own, but, having arrived before
the bed,'and finding it vacant, he made a face which evi-
dentl meant:

“ , well, the question is already decided—good luck
to on, poor Simpleton!”

he rector then returned to his chamber. lighted a ci ar,
and began to ponder over the folly of the bet they iad
made. This. however, only had the effect of exciting him

to meditate farther how he should set about to gain an ad-

vantage over his brother in this very affair.
ter that deserved serious couSIderation.
a: s: a: an: - s 4:

It was a mat-

Victor, who could seldom be accused of wasting much of
his time in reflections, (“ what was the use,” he said, “ of
fatiguing one’s self unnecessarily,”) had been roaming
about the lanes and by-ways ever since sunrise. But it
must'be remarked that these lanes and by-ways did not
skirt his mother’s property; no, they were in the immediate
vicinity of the ugly, solitary, almost gloom 'l‘ysselvik,
which was situated about half a Swedish mile from the

'pzotty little estate, Elfheim, that belonged to Mrs. Wallen-

r .

. 'lghe dwelling-house on 'I‘yssetvik was very bad; its un-
friendly aspect was not even relieved b a few gay shrubs.
Every thing was cold-looking and drie up; the forest had
been cut down, the garden was covered with weeds, and the
only thing that gave the place a little life was .a saw-mill,
the sound of which died away among the rocks that ex.
tended even thus far from the unfruitful shore.

 

!

“ How is it possible that she can live here?” said Victor
to himself.
her life.” .

He walked on further, stood still, then turned round.

“ It would be confoundedly unlucky if I were seen; a
person is exposed to view here from north, south, east and
west. What an infernal spot for adventures of this sort!
There is not a thing to suggest an appropriate subject for
conversation.”

He leaned against a leafless, withered birch-tree, and
kept his eyes fixed upon the gloomy dwelling house, which
contained his angel of light. At ength he heard a rust-
ling behind him. , lie started, and his. vivid imagination
had planned a whole chapter of his Intended romance,
before he could summon up courage to turn round. When,
at length, he did venture to do so, he blushed scarlet in
scorn at his own stupid fancy.

It was only a little village boy, who was ravenously de-
vouring a large piece of rye bread.

“ Does the bread taste good, youn ster?" asked the
young man. as he (-onteinl'dated the lads joyous eyes, and
the relish with which he seemed to be eating it. '

“ Are you hungry. sir?” inquired the boy. .

“ I can not exactly say that I am; but su posing I were,
would you be willing to share '0111‘ bread With me?”

“ Yes, sir, I’d spare you a ittle, a very little. If I am
good, mother says, I shall go to heaven;'and the beautiful
lady up yonder says I shall be good 1f I give a portion of
what 1 have to him who is more hungry than myself.”

“Ye powers above,” thought Victor, “here I have al-
most of itself the first threads to my future love afiair; it
merely depends now u on my keeplng held Of them: and
cleverly making use 0 them.”

“ You are an excellent lad for remembering your moth-
er’s exhortations so well; no doubt you will go to heaven,
even for your good intentions.”

“ Do you think so, sir?”

With an excusable instinct the boy drew the delicious

bread nearer to himself. .

“ Yes, certainly; the parson will tell you, when you 0
to him for instruction, that the intention is as good as t 6
act itself,” ,

“Since I have had one good intention to-daY, I Will just
take the road home across Sundsmo, or else  shall meet
little Peter, who is always hungry.” . .

Victor smiled at the boy’s quick a proprlatwn. of the
idea he had suggested, but as he coul not reconeile it to

his conscience to inculcate Jesuitieal feelings into the‘

youthful mind of his future beloved protege, he hastily
added:

“These children are undoubtedly more sure of heaven
who seek out others more hungry than themselves, and,
unasked, share what they have with them.”

“ Yes, but little Peter eats such an enormOus quantity.
I should so like to bring mother a ieee home.”

“ Look'here!" Victor drew fort 1 a shining silver dollar.

“What if you brought your' mother this piece of money, '

eh?”

The boy’s eyes sparkled, as he exclaimed, “No wonder
you were not hungry, sir!” ~ .

“ Still, if I meet the pretty lady, to whom this estate
belongs, I will tell her that you offered me some of your
bread.” ' ‘

“Will you really, sir?”

“ Certainly, I will.
to-da ‘P”

“ Jyust now, sir.”

“Were you at the house, 'onder ?”

“ No, the lady came ast iere.”

f‘ Ah; she went past. And has she returned?”
a “ Oh no, she has not come back yet, she had a great deal

\

more in the basket which she was carrying oyer her arm.” ,

Victor trembled for joy.

She must return; he had a chance of seeingher gnite‘~_ '

C

    

“A stormy autumn evening would cost her'

Did you get that slice of bread,

 

 

 

 

 

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I clOse. He felt very much tempted to bring forth another
dollar, notwithstanding his purse was not overabundantly
stocked. Ha pily the temptation did not last long; the
boy had alrea y jumped up, and ran off quickly to tell his

- mother what a'piece of luck he had had.

Meanwhile Victor was trying to think of a plan by which

nli‘e might excuse his boldness for trespassing on a stran-

ger’s property.

A thousand ideas rushed through his mind; but, of
course, none satisfactory to himself. A person could not
well lose his way a mile and a half from his own home,
nor could he pretend that he had fallen and broken his
arm or lcgtwhon he was quietly walking, and to be shoot-
ing without a gun was quite as impossible, particularly
upon another’s property.

“ Ah, dear me, how stu iid I am!” at length he cried;
“ I will be going to the miil, I have something to order for
my mother—the deuce, the mill lies in another direction,
and her road is this, and this alone—it won’t do! I have it
at last—I am a botanist—a botanist with all my heart and

' soul; and I have been told—no, I recollect from my child-

hood, that in this neighborhood a very rare plant flourishes,
‘ no matter what; at this moment, I do declare, I cannot re-
member a single Latin namc!——never mind, it is much

I more elite to express one’s self in pure Swedish.”

An forthwith he began, with the utmost eagerness
and care, to seek under the bushes and stones, while in

r ' thought he continued his monologue.

“Ah, so it oes with the man who possesses a proper
confidence in iimself. Fortune is never unfavorable to
the bold. While you, good brother, are asleep or ponder—
ing, I am for ing the first wheel of my happinessl—and,
by Jove, I be icve that my skill is now about to be put to
the test! Are those not her seraph feet which are pressing
the leaves behind me?”

If the young man had answered according to the truth,

i . which he felt, he would have said no! so little did the trip-

ping, and not particularly light, steps which he heard, cor-
respond With those presumptively attributed to seraplis.

“Are you seeking for anything, sir?” asked at that mo-
ment a voice which made our lover shudder from head to
foot, not from intense joy, but from deadly fright.

Could the enchanting singer have such a harsh, such an
every-d3. organ of speech, to use the niildest expression?
And cou d a lady, who wished to fly the whole world, be
capable of thus unceremoniously meeting him more than
half way? With a feeling of constraint and annoyance he
turned round, but involuntarily uttered an exclamation of
pleasure as he beheld before him a very prett , tall woman,
in adeep blue dress, green shawl, an red bonnet, whose
whole deportment and behavior harmonized with the bad
taste of her attire.

“Have you seen me before?” she asked hastily, and with
a selt-satisfied air; “ since you seem so very pleased at my
insignificant presence ?”

“ Can one not also be pleased with the appearance of a
person at first sight?” said Victor, in a tone which was

i meant to be flattering, although most probably he imme-

‘diately began to feel symptoms of ill-humor at the miser-
"able failure of the plans upon which he had so prided him-
self,
I '2‘ But tell me, sir, what are on doing in this wilder-
‘ncss?” recommenced "the damsel? smiling.
_“ I am studyino' botany.” .
“Ali, indeed; f also know something of that nonsensical
botan ; but I find it horribly tiresome, for the sake of a

1.“, few b‘ad'es ‘of grass, to go poking about in marshes and

C

Woods. Have you been long in this neighborhood?”
- “ Only a few days.” '
“ I can’t sa the same, to my sorrow; Ihave dragged out

-~ nwear mont here already.”

'k. u

, so you are a stran er?”

'- c “ Yes, the Lord be than ed! that is some consolation!”

 

“You are merely livin in this neighborhood for the
present, I presume,” said ictor.

“Onlyr as long as it pleases me. In such a dismal,
wretched place, I certainly won’t remain long. ’ One really
is buried alive here.”

“If I may venture to take such liberty, might I ask to .

whom I have the pleasure of speaking? My name is Wal-
lenbcr ; my mother lives not far from here.”

“A1, so you are the District Jud c,” said the young
lady, with an extraordinar nod. “ I ave seen the rector
already in church, althougi I think I was not so fortunate
as to attract his attention ”

“ That can hardly have been the case.”

“ No, really?”

“ But,” said Victor, who instantly perceived that, with
his fair companion, delicacy would be looked upon as
a fault, rather than a virtue, “ but you have not yet been
pleased to favor me with an answer to the_ question I made
hold to put you.”

“ Ah, by-the-by, who I am? Well, I am the companion
and waitin -maid to the Widow Beiidelvik, who has taken
it into her iead to weep for her husband in retirement.”

“ Ali—” Victor be an, but instantly checked himself.

“ I am called Sophie ’I‘olander, Ma’amselle Tolander, of
Jonkoping. My father belongs to the court of justice.”

“ I can not recollect having heard the name there.”

“ He is the oldest Inspector.”

“That is another thing, ma’amselle, then I know him
very well.”

“ Now, that is funny.
with each other.”

“ How long is it since you have been absent from home,
Ma’amsclle 'I‘olander, if 1 may venture to ask?”

“It is little more than a car since I was recommended
to Mrs. Bendelvik. I shou d not have remained with her
after her husband’s death, if she had not entrcated me so
earnestly to accompany her here. I am not made of stone,
not I, when people appeal to my heart!”

“ What admirable feelings! So the young widow is very
unhappy?” '

“She is quite foolish. But I dare not stop longer at
present; this is her hour for coming home. If you will
take a walk here to-morrow, )erhaps, when I am visiting
my lady’s poor people, we might meet.”

Victor was in despair at the prospect of this unexpected
adventure.

Of course, through Ma’amselle Sophie 'I‘olander, he
could gain information respecting his future bride; but it
might as indubitably come to her knowledge, that he had
ha a kind of meeting with her waiting-maid, and such a
discovery could not possibly tell in his favor. Yet it would
not do to offend Ma amselle Sophie.

“Lord bless me, sir, I declare vou are reflecting what
answer to give me. Pray do not take the trouble to come
if it is not convenient to you. To be sure it is rather tire-
some to be always alone, but I have no wish to be intrusive.
Good-morning, sir botanist, much luck to you.”

“ Heigh, ma’amselle, I did not say—”

“ Your humble servant,” said Ma’ainselle So hie, as she

let down her veil, shoved back her bonnet a litt e, and held
her nose grandly in the air. '
“I merely Wished to remark, ma’amselle, that I have
promised my brother to go out shooting with him, but I
ope to return in time to profit by so a reeable a meetin .”
“As you please, sir; however, by-die-by, it can ma 0

no difference to me, for I just remember that to-morrow is .

one of the evenings that my lady goes outrewing, and on

those occasions she is in such a state of feverish excitement

the whole da , that I can not leave the house a minute. ”

In return or this valuable piece of neWs, Victor lauded '

Ma’amselle Sophie’s kind-heartedness in remainin at
home, and assured her that he would not for the worl in-

terfere with this amiable feeling. He then bowed grace-r

fully, and hastened away, turning a deaf ear to Ma’amselle

We may then claim acquaintance '

   
 
 
   
   
  
    
   
   
  
   
  
 
 
 
 
   
   
  
  
  
   
 
   
    
  
   
    
    
 
    
 
  
    
  
  
 
 
     
     
       
    

 

        
       
       
       
     
     
       

 

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Sophie’s fear that she might meet with some mischievous
cattle on her road.

“Curse it,” muttered the young man, “this thread is
snapped far too quickly. The guardian angel of the poor
boy was not. my guardian angel.”

CHAPTER V.
THE BROTHERS commas NOTES.

WHEN the young lawyer returned home he expected to
find Edwin at breakfast with his mother, but the rector
was nowhere to be seen, nor did he make his appearance
until the forenoon. .

The brothers were scarcely alone. when Victor. with the
impatience and eagerness of a child, began telling ldwin
what a great start he had got of him.

“ How so?” asked the rector, with his usual calmness.

“ Hear me first, and then ask. To begin with the cham—
bermaid has been the custom pretty nearly since the heathen
times.”

“But assuredly it would have been better if you had
managed to begin with the heroine herself.”

Victor, who had commenced in rather a boastful manner,
answered somewhat dejectedly:

“ Of course, but good fortune does not fall into one’s lap
without pains and trouble.”

“Not with you, perhaps, but with me it does.”

“ What do you mean?" ,

“ThatI have not only seen our widow, but that I have
s oken to her, and that l have not only spoken to her, but
t at I have also held her hand. while she crossed the nar—
row bridge, which leads over the brook in the woods.”

“ You abominable fellow, you—but why should I be an—
noyed? When a person is inventing a story, it is easy
enough to embellish. I, on the contrary, who have met
with realities, need not embellish.”

“ If you do not believe my words, let proofs satisfy you.
What do you say to this?”

“Ah, ou have found a pocket-handkerehief with the
name ‘ athilde’ marked on it!” ‘

“ An excellent pretext, is it not," replied the rector, “to
wait upon her to-morrow ?"

“ No, it is impossible; it is absolutely impossible. Where,
when, or how, could you have seen her?”

The rector smiled.

“ It,” continued Victor, “it really be true, it is beneath
you to make use of such a pretext.”

“I have to thank my dear philosophy for this good
turn.”

‘ “ Explain yourself.”

“I had been lying down reading my ‘Heine,’ in that
part of the wood, on know, where the brook divides our
‘yssclvik estate, but I had just put aside
the volume to seek among the trees a name, which I had
once cut in the bark of a birch-tree.” _

“Ah, I remember all about it; yOIi did. it at the time
when on were in love with our pretty little cousin Hilda.”

“ born I have never seen since then. That is a re-
miniscence of my happy school-days.” '

“(to on, can’t you?"

“ Well, I was just standing, wonderin at Hilda’s and
m name being still so fresh-lookino', wren between the
to iage and branches of the trees, I brilield a little black elf
gliding along, and-—would 'ou believe it—remain presently
stationary before my open 00k?” ‘

“This is enough to drive a man mad. What had you
done to deserve such a iece of luck?”

“ Console yourself With the old saying, that the goddess
of fortune is blind.”

“ Spare me our hackneyed school phrases» Did she
take pp the boo ?”

\

“ \es, to be sure she did, and she even began to glance

 

I fifi

through it, in evident wonder how it had found its way i it i

there. ’

“ And, of course, you did not let her wonder long in
vain.” ,

“Certainly not, but I did not rush forward, as you,
doubtless, in our eagerness would have done. I drew near
modestly, and at the same time with a thoughtful air,
which spared he ‘ all embarrassment. '

“ ‘We are neighbors, madam,’I said, quietly, indeed
with indifference rather than eagerness; ‘permit me as

such to ask, if my library could not assist to while away an ‘
Ihave brought some good '

hour now and then for you.
books with me. into the country, of a lighter class than the
one yonder, and I shall be delighted to put them at your
disposal.’ ”

“ And she condescended to answer your itnpudence?”

“ lmpudenee. do you call it? She. judged my words
ver differently. for she answered with much grace, and
wit 1 a Voice the sweetness of which cannot be described: .

“ ‘l shall have much pleasure in profiting by an offer
which has been made to me with so much frankness.’ ”

“ Oh, this is too much, too much!" cried Victor. “I,
alas, have not got a single book with me, except—”

“ Your beloved l’aul dc Koek; might you not~”

“ Silence; will you be silent. I say!
shall also find my opportunity!” I
“ While you are thinking the matter over, I will finish
my stery, with your permission.” ‘

“ Yes, let us hear the end of it.” _

“ ‘ It you will allow me to send you a list of the works I
have at your command’——observe, I said send—‘ you can
then mark those Works which you care to read.’ ”

“ ‘ Thatwill not be necessary,’ she answered, ‘ I leave the
choice to you. Mr. Wallcnberg.’ ”

“ ‘Mr. ll'allenberg’——I now distinctly perceive that you
are romancing.” ,

“ Not a word of nntruth have I spoken; she wished to"
show, in a delicate manner, that she knew me.” ' A

“ And it was a Vant of politeness on your part to force
her to this delicacy, by not presenting yourself. Well,
and has she consented to your paying her a visit?”

“She said nothing further than what I have told you,
and the last sentence she uttered as she bowed adieu, and
stepped toward the bridge.” ,

“ And fate threw this opportunity in your wa I” .

“ Good-breeding demanded that 1 should hasten forward
and assist her across. Accordingly, in the InOSt oniet: 1111--

 

assuming manner, I offered her my hand.” , . _

“ Now for the history of the pockctjllatiidkercliief. ”

“Which is simple, that she left it lying by the bOOk.
And if I had run after her with it, It WOUld have appeared.
very like intrusion.” I 1

Victor answered nothin ; his good-temper had flOWn,
and although he would wil ingly have asked his brother ’a
thousand questions about her appearance and her manners,
he did not ask him one. i

“ It was evident that Edwin would have been charmed , ‘  

7:.

to have related all the particulars which were connected
with his little adventure, but Victor, even though he was
punishing himself, was comforted that Edwin had not an
op tortunity of boasting further of his success. v

ut we will now leave the brothers, and next pay the I
young widow herself a vis'tt. ‘ , '.. ‘. .

-—-—.____

CHAPTER VI.
A WIDow’s sonnow.

IN a lar
of Tyssélvik, _

ebony arm chair. _ A
The young lady, who, as we

But wait a bit, I '

room, not hung with black it is trfie,vbut 4,
with dark angmgs and drawn our’tmns, sat the mistress'{
eanmg against the carved back 'of an old,I '_

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and the expression of suffering. or rather a painful longing
which pervaded her countenance, lent to each feature a
peculiar interest; still one could not behold this intellectu-
al face, without wishing that its shade of anxious sadness
might be removed.

Mathilde was not occupied with a piece of elegant em-
broidery, or any light work which might have diverted her
thoughts. One hand played mechanically with the tassels
at the arm of the chair; the other grasped an antiquated-
.looking gold heart covered with quaint figures, the upper
part forming the lock to the lower.

Perhaps it was this ornamental heart which the gossips
had honored with the name of her husband‘s heart.

But whether Mathilde had grieved, or still grieved little

or much, this heart, at least, appeared to he. a trinket of
the highest worth to her, for she carried it to her lips over
and over with almost passionate. vehemence, and soon her
tears began to fall upon its dim flowers and leaves.
\ But not content with giving this proof of tenderness to
the outer treasure, she presently opened the heart, and
took a lock of light hair out of it, which. without doubt,
was her IiiOstbittei‘ and her most cherished remembrance,
for now-the young wife’s tears increased to passionate sob-
bing, that did not cease until the door of the ante-chamber
was softl opened, when instantly the hair was returned
to its locket, and the heart itself was deposited in a little
silver box.

It was Ma’amselle Sophie whose entry had disturbed
her mistress's solitude. -

“ My racious, how strange it is that you can endure to
wee so ongl” exclaimed Sophie.

1V athilde seemed to pay no attention to the interruption.

“ If I cry only half an hour,” Sophie continued, “ I am

i . perfectly miserable, and look frightful; but you, madame,

might weep the whole day, and still be as beautiful as
ever.”

“Sophie,” said the youncT widow, in a tone which stop-
ped all further flattery, “ think you would dowel] to re-
member whatl have told you.”

“ Lor, ma’am, I am quite aware that you will not listen
to a sin le word of truth from such an insignificant individ-
ual as am considered to be; nor would it be of any par-
ticular consequence how one looked in this dreary wilder-
ness, if it were not now a little less solitary than it was
When we' first came into this neighborhood.”

“ What do you mean?”

“ Nothing more than that there are actually human be-
ings here.”

“ So there always have been.”
“ To be sure, but only of a certain class.”
“ And now?"

“ Now, a new sort has come. Yesterday morning I met

; '\ a young man, who is so handsome, oh. so handsome, that
- . be exactly resembled a sugar-angel.

Madame has doubtless
. seen such angels, they are generally exhibited in the con-
fectioners’ shops at Christmas-time.”
" f‘Is’ he fair?” asked the young widow, any} a faint rose-
tint spread over her pale cheeks.
“No, he is as dark as an Italian, and such a pair of
i

v ’eyes he has, you can not imagine how fine they are!

“I am at a loss to know why you trouble me with all this

--_‘.' ,- nonsense—what does it signify to me how a stranger
a,  2 looks?”

“ But, madame, I assure you—"
“ Be silent, and spare me in future the discoveries you
may'make.”
‘L ' “ My patience! of course I will be silent, and not forget
Who I “m; but I thought it was agreed, ina‘ain, when you

  ‘- persuaded me to accompany you into this wilderness, that

should be more of ' a companion than a waiting-maid?”
“ And so you shall be when I feel inclined for society;

‘ ~ ‘ as soon as that time comes, .I will. tell you.”
,3; The mistress made a motion With her hand, and without

*\ .- " .1"-. '- ,‘rvx .. ,g > V . iv”

\ . Vi \ x‘ ,. '  ' "2

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rm; momma am: y ’ ‘7 .‘ ‘ ‘

venturing to utter another word, Ma‘amselle Sophie took
her departure. *

When Mathilde was again alone, she- knelt down upon a
black velvet cushion, placed before the sofa. Her eyes
were fixed upon a portrait, which was hung above the sofa.
It was the likeness of her husband. Had Mathilde been a.
Catholic, and the picture the image of a saint, she could
not have prayed more devoutly than she now appeared to
be doing; but whether her prayer was for a speedy reunion
with the original of the picture, or whether it referred to
another object of interest, we are quite unable to decide.
This, however. is certain, that the young widow‘s tears
more resembled convulsive despair. than the quiet, earnest
sorrow which consoles itself with the hope of, ere long,
rejoining the departed one in heaven. ~

She was doomed to he again soon disturbed in the out-
poiirings of her grief.

Sophie presented herself once more, and answered her
mistress’s angry looks with the news that the rector, Mr.
Wallenberg, sought her permission to pay her a visit.

First an expression of impatience, which was not partic-
ularly flattering to the young rector, and then an expres-
sion of contentment passed over )Iatliilde.’s lovely counten-
:mceu lf‘inally, having regained her composure, she an-
swered,

“Ask the rector to have the goodness to step into the
drawing-room, I will be with him immediately:”

CHAPTER VII.
conronTER NO. ’I.

TEN minutes later our widow entered the'drawing-room,
but she had very nearly retreatml'on beholdng a dark-
eoml'ilexioned young man. with sparkling eyes, and confi-
dent air, instead of her acquaintance of yesterday, the
thoughtful, modest rector.

“ Surely my waiting-maid did not hear the right name,
or, perhaps, I misunderstood her; I thought that she an-
nounced the rector. M r. Wallenbcrg."

“ She did as she was requested to do. Since his name
was so fortunate as to be known to you, I ventured to as-
sume it on presenting myself to you, but I must introduce
myself to you as the District Judge, Wallenberg, your old
neighbor. and obedient servant.”

Mathilde bowed her charming head gravely but grace-
fully, then she said, as she took a seat:

“ I’ray be seated, sir, and impart to me your errand! I
have only a few minutes at your disposal.”

“ A few minutes,” repeated Victor, new bend, to him-
self—“ may all good spirits stand by me, that I may make
some way with this beautiful prize before Edwin comes
sailing in to betray me as an impostor.’ ’ .

The true state of the case was as follows: Victor had
felt a strong temptation, like Jacob, to rob his brother
Esau of his most precious blessing, therefore he had come
while the good rector little dr *amed of such a trick being
played him, to obtain a legitimate right, namely, the right
to pay the young widow a visit. Victor's conscience did
not trouble him for an instant. He considered that in
love, as in any other conflict, every kind of strattigem was
allowable.

Meanwhile, it need scarcely be said, that his inward
prayer did not hinder his lips from immediately beginning
their office, which truly did not consist in silence.

“ My errand; I shall have the honor of mentioning it
presently. But if I inicrht venture to entreat a favor,’ it
would be that you would grant me ten minutes to speak of
something else.” I

“I fancy, sir,” answered Mathilde, in a less cold than
melancholy tone of voice, “since you are not a stranger
here, that on can not be unacquainted with my position,
and I had oped thatit would have inspired every one with
sufficient respect to have checked all paltry curiosity.”

 

 
 
    
  
  
  
   
    
  
  
   
  
   
  
 
 
 
   
  
  
 
   
   
  
  
   
 
 
   
   
 
   
 
  
   
  
  
 
   
  
 
   
      
     
       
   
        
         
       
   
        
    

  

        

  
 

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.......¢.... .-~.. .,

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“ Ah, madame, you are too severe. Command me to go,

‘ condemn my boldness for presenting myself before you, but

do not accuse me of paltry curiosity. That would be an
impertinence toward you, and I never could be wanting in
the respect in which your sex, your position, and above all,
your present unprotected state, would inspire me, and
every man of honor.”

“Well, there is so much sincerity in your words, that it
contradicts 'our behavior; but to give me a proof-4’

“ Deman a hundred if you please.”

“ I shall content myself with one.
to leave me, and never to return.”

“ Never!”

“ I live alone, sir, and wish to remain alone as long as I
stay here.”

“I shall obey. However, I must convince you—I owe
it to my honor—that I have not come out of curiosity to
see you, for—”

Mathilde’s eyes looked inquiringly.

“ For I have alr *ady had that honor.”

The young widow blushed, and cast an uneasy glance at
the clock which hung in the room.

“ I annoy you, madame; Iwill resign my place to an envi-
able individual. Therc onl remains for me now humbly
to beg your pardon for my intrusion, and to add. . . but
I must not forget that I might again incur your anger by
adding another word.”

Mathilde turned slightly pale at Victor‘s allusion to leav-
in the field open by his (.lqiarture, and he had scarcely
finished speaking when she said, with almost timid emo-
tion: ‘

“ Sir, you just now requested ten minutes to speak of
something else besides your brother’s errand. I grant you
these ten minutes.”

“ Thanks, a thousand thanks!” .

Victor, who had been standing all this time, now took a
seat, at such a distance, however, from the widow, that
even the most ill-natured eyes could have seen nothing to
find fault with. Otherwise his manners and whole appear—
ance were more those of a man who wished to confer a
favor, than a man who was bent upon gaining an advantage
for himself. -

“I am waiting, sir.”

The lovely Mathilde looked exceeding] interesting.

“ What I intended to have added, madhme, is this: You
ay‘e in sorrow, you are alone, and you wish to be so. Well,
I have determined, with or without your permission, to
come to cheer you. Human beings are seldom so in love
with their rief, that in certain moments they ma not be
influenced y other impressions, and thus diverte . Such
a moment is now before you. You are astonished at my
boldness in interfering in your affairs. You are wrong to
think it boldness—but that is of no consequence. if only
you are diverter .”

“I must confess that your originality, which. one might
almost be tempted to designate presumption, really does
amuse me; but when I tell you that I can not permit vou
to continue your endeavors any longer—”

“ If you permitted me to'eontinue them. they would lose
their worth; they would then become a duty. But I know
you will not give such a permission, therefore, all my
thoughts and endeavors confine themselves to convincing
you t at there exists a being who is disinterested enough
to believe himself richly rewarded by t c knowledge of hav~
ing been useful to so charming a lady.”

“ Then 011 think—” i

“ That, ienceforth, in your solitude, my image will often

Have the goodness

dwell in our mind, that consequently your thou hts will

be partia -1y diverted-quite against your will, 0 course;
but that, again, does not signify, if only your sad hours
are somewhat cheered.” _

“You are exceedingl amiable to take all this trouble
fora person totally un nown to you. But, as it is very

The 3150 THERS’ BET.

 

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L i....._-..._...‘._._...4_.

unlikely that we shall see each other soon again, I must
tell you that—3’ ’ .

“ Oh,” cried Victor, “I pray you do not profane your
lips by making an assertion which is not (piite the fact!
he not tell me that when lam gone I shal not occupy
your thoughts a single moment!”

“ I did not intend to say that; on the contrary. I 'am
sure I shall think of you; but these then hts, I can assure
you. will never assume a romantic form, wIIiich doubtlesshin
secret, you imagine must be the consequence of your intro-
ducing yourself here.” ~

“ You are a good Christian. madam, I must say, to
favor me with this warning before, to my knowledge, I
have given you any cause for it,” answered our young
judge, blushing deeply.

“ Yes, I hope I am a good Christian; but, above all. I
am a straightforward person. If you choose to rush into
an adventure, that is your own affair. I have warned you,
and I add, that I shall never eonsider you in any other
light than that of an extremely conceited, presumptuous
youn man.”

“ You might, at least, have been pleased to say eccen-
tric!” g;

“ Then, at the expense of truth, I should have been
pleased to have chosen a milder and more agreeable expres-
sion. You are very peculiar, sir. because, notwithstanding
your pretensions to being cccentrie, there is not a particle
of eccentricity about you.” a

“ Very good; madame, you have a right to look upon me
as you please; I have a right to comfort myself With the
certainty that you will not forget me.”

“The ten minutes,” replied Mathilde, “have been pro—
longed to fifteen, therefore, I beg you to communicate as
briefly as possible your real business.”

“ Ah, to be sureg—my brother’s errand.” .

Just then Ma’amselle Sophie. opened the door again and
announced : '

“ The rector, Mr. Wallenbcrg!”

“ What now?" exclaimed Mathilde.

“The devil!" muttered Victor to himself, “ down goes
my sun now; but still, I think it has done its work toler-
ably;” whil * aloud he said, “ As Edwin is coming himself,
I feel I am (10 {7'01} ,' I shall therefore take my departure.”

And while the rector and his hostess were still exchang-
ing the usual ceremonious bows and salutations, the young
lawyer vanished from the scene, without paying the slight-
est attention to the astonished glances cast at him by those
he was leaving behind, more particularly by Mrs. 'Ben-
dclvik. -

I

 

CHAPTER VIII.
conronrnn' N0. II.

EDWIN WALLENBERG fixed his soft, thoughtful, deep '

blue eyes upon the beautiful Mathilde, who cast down hers,
and left it to her new guest to begin the conversation him-
self.

And he began it thus: _, i

“ I did not know that my brother had the )1easure (if
being acquainted with you, madame. If I had een aware
of it, Iwould have begged him to have introduced me, for
I can scarcely believe that you remember an acquaintance

of yesterday, who is so totally unworthy of your recola

lection.”

“Oh, sir, I have certainly not for ro'tten your kind,

promise to provide me with books! \'hat, however, as-
tonishes me is, that you appear to be ignorant of your
brother’s visit, when he came on an errand. from you. ’

“ IIow—on an errand from me ?”

“ Yes, certainly.” ‘

“There must surely be some mistake,” answered the;

rector, sli htly frowning. ‘ _
“ Nott e slightest mistake! He even hadhimielf an-
nounced by your name.” . \ ' - v " ’

 

 

 

 

    

 

f.

I ' 1 . v'4

y""‘ . Hf, , , .4 ,
i \ ,‘ .

, ‘.‘ Mi ht Ipyask what was the business with which I en:
trusted im?” ~
“ He did not get so far as to disclose it,” replied Mrs.
’Bendelvik, “because, as he declared, your entrance rendered
- , it unnecessar .”
v ‘fI really 0 not know, dear madame, how I am to ex-
7‘ culpato.my brother’s boldness. The only excuse to be
.found for it is, I might almost say, the childish frivolity
of his character. There is no evil in him, he is a good-
, natured simpleton, nothing more.”
" , "‘ He is very engaging,” answered Mathilde, artlessly:
I.“and he did not utter a word in dispara'gemcnt of your

7  character. ”

‘rkhfl — '..}._'e..... . J’ -

 

, 4.. —

 

v

..,.u

M‘ .i.

 “s
. “Jittionso

“,I feel the extent-0f this mild reproof, but even though

'it should lower me in the eyes of those who do not know

me, I must still repeat that my brother is a good-natured

, simpleton, whom I, however, love too much to be long
' angry with for the trick he has played me.”

i, “ Ah, so he has played you a trick?”

, “That he has indeed. I told him of my having acci-
dentally met you, and he repays my confidence by present-
ing himself to you without my knowledge.”

“That is really very disagreeable, and it sincerely
glrieves me to have been the object of a conversation

. tiatw”

1i “‘ Contained not a sin le syllable that could dis lease

‘ you in the most remote ‘egrec.
.. the sub'ect, will you
logue cl my library?’

f “Thank you very much; I shall, as you proposed, mark
the names of those works which I should h ’e to read, and
then return it to you.” ,

' “Which is as much as to say that my brother’s incon-
siderate behavior falls back uponme. You do not deign
to let me hope that I might aSSist you in your choice, or
' now and then come, and by conversmg about what you
have read, enliven your solitude.”

“ The last is quite impossible.”

‘.‘ Impossible 1’

. But, madame, to c aiigc
permit me to show you a small cata-

ossi in .”
.. ha,
i. ' Edwin.

' “ You must acknowled 0, Mr. Wallenberg, that wher-
ever she may be, it is the uty of every unprotected young
_ woman to be reservec .”

“",’,,."‘ Certain-1y, but in your situation, madame, tl.ere is no

here in“ this humdrum neighborhood?” said

' a - necessity for such reserve.”

,. “No matter, my own feelings of what is right must
-, , decide for me.” : _

, rather, your aversion to the importu‘nate atten-
‘ astran er.”

‘1 .Mathilde smi ed sadlv.

 

s
x J "' A
L *4. M

l- \
xii"
I

:téfiilgl'flkm I shall succeed.

“ Believe me, Mr. Wallenberg, I would not even allow
an abquain'tance to disturb my voluntary solitude.”
y, " “well, but there remains one point yet. You said ‘be-
. causein the first place;’ what is your other reason?”
 “It is this:' I can positively assure you that your kind
 “intentions Will remain unrcwardcd. I have no wish to

..,-bhange m present mode of life; an ardent desire to con-

\

tinuo it t iiis, gives to my days their only lllterCSt- What
ig‘it'that you Wish, therefore 3’”
 ~ “I Wish to prove to you that you are not

 

acting rightly.

 grind if ouwill be sotgood as to permit me to meet you
i

jzvnofw air then under a open heavens, during your morn-
"" - - . _
it,  p ‘f It is even _morc iniposs1ble for me to grant tliisf” per-

.l.

4:513“ Mathilde. -
its-"l ‘f‘Mllle‘n'ot then cherish the slightest hope of seeing
«you “aim?! . ‘

,. u, u; in c'o’nclusjon, permit me to say a few words which

 

 

1 ,

. , “Yes, because in the first .place, on reflection, I think,
»- I} that the visits of a gentleman might give occassion for

"I

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v

“Ah, pra speak, command, I feel myself happy‘tobe
allowed to o ey you.” .1
“It is not a command, but a request I make._ Forget
me entirely, and neither force on me your attentions, nor

yet your annoyance at your attentions-being declined.”

“ To forget you, is, for the present moment, at least, ‘
not in my power, but to force any attention upon you,
after you have so decidedly forbidden it, is, of course, out.3
of the question.” i

“I expected this answer, and since I have neither a
brother nor a protector, who could thank you for the re-
spect you have shown me, I do so myself most readily and
Sincere] .” , -

“ An I,” answered the rector with emotion, “in taking
m leave, beg your pardon, madame, for having, misled by
ali'iendly intention, been wanting in that consideration
which your position demands.” , ,

“ Having thus spoken, he .bowed low and respectfully, \
and was already at the door, when Mathilde—in whose
handsome countenance might be read a mixture of con-
tentment and annoyance—stepped forward to detain him.

“ Mr. Wallenberg, I-tliat is to say, circumstances have,
perhapls, wounded you—in future—’ She stopped.

“A , so I may hope that—” '

“ No, no; hope for nothing else but In gratitude. And
if you really have respect for a poor wi ow, then—do not
watch her steps.”

This was said in a trembling voice, and if possible, with
a yet more eloquent gesture.

“ Re-assure yourself, madame, he who acts with the
openness that I do, could never become a spy.”

A deep blush covered Mathilde’s cheeks, and spread even i
to her brow. -

“ Thanks!” she answered with a bright, charming look.

Edwin felt that this look almost penetrated his heart,
but he withdrew without answering farther than by anoth-
er still lower bow.

For several minutes after the rector had disappeared,
the young widow remained standing where she was, with
her face uried in her hands. ' -

When she again raised her head, two large tears dimmed
her eyes.

“Ah, Father, Father in Heaven,” she whispered, “how
will all this end? If I could, I would 0 away immedi-
ately—go awa immediate] ? no, no, talk foolishly.
How I sufier,’ she added so tly, as she laid her hand u 11
her agitated heart. “ Day and night this image is be are
me! My life is absorbed in one sin 1e thought, and I am
terrified by ever thing that might interfere with my fate
and avert it. \ hat have I done to these two men that
they wish to force their solicitude u on me? They will
not be satisfied, at least not the one w 10, with such unpre-
cedented boldness, wanted to com 1 me to think of him.
Years hack, perhaps, he might iave succeeded but too
well; now, on the contrary, oh, now all romantic adven-
tures are out of the question for me.”

But this last sentence had scarcely passed her Ii 3, when
her face became again suffused with burning blus es, not-
withstandin she was now quite alone. A subdued sigh
raised her sight muslin morning-dress. ' Then she sank
into a lounging-chair, and hid her brow against its cush-
ione side. '

“ Did you ring, madame?” said Ma’amselle Sophie, at
that moment stretching her inquisitive face inside the'
door. .

“ Why do you bontinually intrude upon me without be-
ing called?” demanded the tormented mistress, with sleek
which plainly bespoke her displeasure. ‘

“ Good gracious; this is the way I am rewarded for my
good intentions!” _

“Listen; since you have come in, I have, an order to
give on.”

 

   

9-Iiratxlfilfi; heart, and you Will not Surely let me say “ 11 Order? Madame. did not speak in such severe terms
 3.11  I' , , ' when I received her promise to be her companion.”
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. my mind with re'Spect to the so

.' 7." '. _, r, ,1"
'4 .

A.

“ May be not, because in those days , you .did not take

“' . liberties which were unbecoming to you.

“ Yes, but-—-” . i ‘

“ Be silent and listen. Once for all, I desire you not to
receive either of these Mr. Wallenbergs, unlessf’—this was
added in a drawling, almost an y tone—“unless I change
{litude which at present best

9

agrees with my wishes.”

_—-——.

CHAPTER IX.
EXCHANGE or LETTERS.

On the following morning our youthful widow received
two letters, one of which was uite thin and flexible, and
was stuck under the envelope 0 the other. '

The first, from the rector, ran thus:

“ DEAR MADAME:-—You forbade me yesterday to visit
you; I obey. You forbade me to meet you during your
walks; I obey. You forbade me to watch your steps in any
way; I obey this also.

“ But there was one thing which you forgot to include
in your commands, namely, that I was not to write to you.

- Hence I take advantage of this single expedient which you

have left open to me.

I“ In the first lace I entreat you most earnestly not to
throw aside my etter, unread, and trusting that you wirl
grant my request, I beseech on most hum ly to read what

have ventured to write wit as much attention as it is
possible for you to spare me.

“ “In all I have seen you four times; in church, during
one of your rows on the lake, during a walk in the wood,
and lastly, yesterday, in your own house.

“ To have seen a woman like you four times, has had the
same effect as if I had seen another woman forty times. I
love you, madame! Ali, for Heaven’s sake do not throw
away my letter; you will presently see that this confession
was necessary to justify my audacity. For you know love
justifies every thing.

“ Now, at least, you have a clear explanation of. my be1
havior, and be the conse ucnces what they may, honor for-
bidsme to delay this exp anation longer.

“ Then let me repeat it again. I love you.

“’But it is not a violent, it is not an extravagant, and
still less is it amad level On the contrary, it is the most
respectful, the most dpatient, and the most yielding love,
which ever man coul have experienced for so perfect a
bein as yourself.

“ ince I have had the courage to confess this, which
may probably damage my cause, as, strange to say, woman
is most generally taken by storm, there remains yet for me
to add, my respectful devotion, my deep sympathy in every
thing that concerns you, are so far removed from selfish-
ness, that during the banishment to which you have con-
demned me, I suffer less for my own peculiar loss than I do

afor..,the consequences to you. .

“This may sound conceited, but, believe me, it is not
so. Left to yourself, you will permit your grief—which is
reall unreasonable, since it is carried to such an extreme,
totall
I do not mean outward beauty, for the form which God has
bestowed u on your spirit is of too exalted a cast tobe visi-
bly change b any thin else than by time; but the flower
of your inwar beauty, t ie fresh and noble powers of your
youth will decay, and a wasting'of the mind will follow the
melanchol , which at present consumes you. Then listen
to me.
and yet how unspeakany much for me to receive! I \

“ Allow me to see you sometimes, allow me to write to
you now and then, and if you would highly reward my de-
votion, occasionall send me an answer.

“ Never again, assure 'ou, shall the word love be men-

tioned byme, either verb ly or in writing, until you your-

5
I

a

y to consume your life, and the flower of your beauty. .

hat I covet would be nothing for you to grant;

\ l
I .
9

THE BROTHERS’ BET.

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self—should that "happy time ever arrive—~permit it. I
ask to be to you a fat er, brother and friend. I know not
if you have such—in the full meaning of the words.

“ And-now I have finished. . ’

“May you look with charity upon my letter, for it is
penned in a spirit of dee respect

“My brother has admdted his fault, and received par—
don. I hope that he will never again make use of my
name in any step which might excite your displeasure.

“ Your most devoted admirer, friend, and servant,

“ Enwm WALLENBEBG.”

The other letter, from the lawyer, contained the follow-
mg:

“ MADAME—AB I fear you might possibly have forbade
your waiting-maid to deliver a letter from me, I find my-
self once more obliged to take advantage of my brother’s
more fortunate star. '

“ From his manner and his short answers I conclude
that you have dismissed him as well as in self; but he will
venture to write—without doubt he will 0 so—and there-

fore I have got this ready to slip into his envelope, which ‘
y.

be generally closes very careless _
“ I would not have made this miserable confession to

you, but that I do not care that on should think that my

esteemed brother had kindly a orded me his assistance;

oh, no, he is no friend to an fellowship in certain matters. ‘
I, on the contrary, think it me its advantages at times, so ‘

I borrowed the letter from the messenger. 1 it was wrong,
you must blame the dangerous doctrines of the present day,
and not me. I have been misled, like man 0t ers.

“ After this preface which was due to t e post, I shall
continue with more com sure.

“ Can you believe, m ame, that I am writin this letter
on my knees, not in a figurative sense, but in so er realit .
I solemnly declare that at the present moment the wor (1

“Ah, what anguish it is to have angered youl This
anguish can on] be compared to the depressing feeling of
having deserved, your displeasure—perhaps even your con-
tempt. I

“I might almost be tempted to look upon the visit
which I was so bold as to pay you, and all that I said dur-
ing it, as a feverish dream, if your displeasure, so severely
expressed, did not convince me, sorely against my will,
that I was uilty of these follies.

“ The on y ssible way, not‘to conciliate you, but to
make my cxc amations intelligible to you, is frankly to
confess that I frequently resemble that unfortunate" race
called crack-brained. I took it into my poor head that I,
fool though I be, was selected for your comforter. I could
have sworn with the most sacred oaths, that I adore you,
not as an unattainable ideal, but as an eathly divinity,
whom I would have liked to have won at any price.

“Alas, madame, that at least was a dream. When I
awoke I recollected—wliat I always forget in my dreams—

'eontains not a more penitent sinner than myself.

that for the last two years I have been enga ed to my: "xi

\

cousin, acharming little irl of great merit. h, would
not in dear, adored Bertfia be enraged, if she suspected
the fo lies of her intended. As a wife, however, should
she ever hear of them, she shall learn that similar freaks
are of little importance.

“ Forgive me, dear madame, for having troubled you
with this confidential communication; you will surel not
refuse this to me, when you reflect that the.course am
pursuing is the only one I could adopt to set your‘fears at

rest with respect to my falling back into my unfortunate «

Cl‘l‘Ol‘S. o

“ There remains only for me most solemnly to assure “
you that in visiting you nothing was further from ’my ‘ :
How could I, who adore'. "
women, insult one of the most noble and excellent of her ,’
sex. No, pray, believe that all that Ixsaid sprung from...) '
the influencc’uiider which I; then found myself; audit Ii,

thoughts than to insult you.

I

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might crave so‘ niuclif-forgive' and forget my folly! Your
repentant and devoted slave, ' ‘
“ Vicron WALLENBERG.”

“P. S.-—For the short timethat I shall spend in my

mother’s house, I shall consider it my duty to avoid on.

V I should blush with shame if I saw you again. on-
' sequently this is as good as taking leave for life.”

. A few hours later the young widow dispatched two notes
in answer to her different correspdndents; to the rector she
' . wrote:

“SIR: As I highly prize your frankness and delicacy,
and approve of your sincerity, I hasten to give you as sin-
cere and frank an answer.

“ My life is bound to him to whom Ihave sworn fidelity
even unto death. Nothing will dissuade me from this. ,

“It is in your power, however, to render me more miser-
able than I am, for if you do not cease to give me such
plain proofs of your sympathy, I must quit the asylum
which I have chosen. .

“ MATHILDE BENDELVIK.”

To the young lawyer she wrote the following:

“ SIR: I think I have already told ou that I consider
you a very forward person; it is there ore unnecessary to
repeat it. I pity your Bertha very much indeedy

‘.‘ With respect to the farce in which you were pleased to
assign me a part, I pardon you for two reasons: in the first
place because you have shown sincere repentance, and
secondly, because I wish to beg you to do me a great ser-
vice.

“ Ride into town this evening, and fetch me from thence

. a letter, which ought to arrive to-day. If Ican count up-
on your kindness, I shall receive my letter to-morrow fore-
noon, perhaps quite early, instead of to-morrow evening.
I do not consider this a very severe punishment for your
delinquencies toward me. “ MATHILDE BENDELVIK.”

When the young lady had sealed her letters, she contem-
plated the last note with an expression which might almost
ave been called roguish, if her eyes had not retained

their undeniable melanclmly.
_“Thank IIeaven‘for this idea,” said she to herself, “it
wrll Spare me at least seven hours of anxiety, for, dear
his beloved Bertha may be to him, the blockhead

 

. * Will sure to ride half the night to do my bidding.”
CHAPTER X.
i it, ~ '. LETTER FROM THE CITY.
fl “ ' THE self-love of woman is certaian not all-seeing, but

very often a tolerably true prophet. Mathilde had said to
. herself, “ dear though his beloved Bertha may be to him,
the blockhead will be sure to ride half the night to do my
 a bidding.” -v ‘
I. .VictOr really did ride the whole night; and he did so
‘WIth the more pleasure, because he really had a cousin

', , called Bertha, a sister'to the rcctor's youthful flame, but

this Young lady was as ignorant as the frivolous young

. ",1 man himself, of any engagement existing between them.

.1' They had not seen each other for at least ten years, but the
‘: .dunnin lover had taken it into his head that it would be a
 splendi idea to pretend that he had a fianme, it might re-
/- .gassure the widow, and if he once stood on. a good footing
7"...‘Wlth “her, it would be then unite time enough to laugh
*. ‘over the joke.

_ , rson for the time being most discontented with
his poets, was naturally the rector, who happened to

. 3.";  tawgfie in the morning, just as Victor galloped into the
if.  court-yard; it might have been about five o’clock.

,y- ~ _ Edwm‘w‘as not aware that his brother had gone awa on
 horseback ’the evening before;-he therefore gut himse f to

 

the trouble Of enveloping himself in his reaming-gown,
Q i . I . I i I V. \

 

 

and stretching his head out of the window to see who it '
was that had arrived so early, and in such haste.

“ What does this mean ?” muttered he. “ Victor is cov-
ered with dust, as though he camefrom—” .

Edwin proceeded no farther with his soliloquy, for with
three springs the young lawyer was off his horse, and stand-
ing beneath his brother’s window, which was not at a great
hight from the ground. '

“ Are you curious?” asked Victor, as he held up the let-
ter addressed to Mrs. Bendelvik.

“ What is the meaning of this?” demanded Edwin, hold-
ing out his hand.

“ It means that I am much more fortunate than you, in
your security, imagine. Tell me, have you also been en--
trusted with a particular commission?”

“ You have not got that letter with her consent,” an-
swered the rector, With a vehemenee quite new to him.

“ So that’s our opinion?”

Now it was ’ictor who assumed an air of scorn.

“ Take care you do not carry your foolery a little too far.
A letter—”

“ Which one is re uested to fetch by the most beautiful
of the beautiful. W iat is more natural than that a man
should fetch it.”

“ You Were requested, indeed!” The rector shrugged
his shoulders disdainfully.

“Poor brother, I respect your disbelief, it is very ex-
cusable in your position.”

. “ None of your nonsense, Victor. How did you get that .
letter?”

“ At the post-office in town.”

“Ah, I understand; the postmaster sent it to you b
chance. A peasant lad of this neighborhood might aswe l
have brought it.” .

“ Without doubt, if Mrs. Bendelvik had written to this
easant, and in the most condescending manner, begged
his kind aid.” '

“ Oh, indeed! So you mean to assert that she has writ-
ten to you?” ~

“ Yes, certainly. The messenger who yesterday brought
vou the note that, seemed to afford you so much pleasure,
had already delivered one for me.”

“ She wrote me an answer to a letter of mine, but you
do not surel expect to make me believe that she thus un-
ceremoniousi be an a correspondence with a man who had
literally insu ted ier.” _ ,

“ I never said that she began the correspondence.”

“What, have you been so bold—” . _ ‘

“ Merely to slip a tiny scrap of paper Within your roomy
envelope,’ continued Victor, slyly. “ Remember, every -
thing is allowable in war and in love.” .

The rector became crimson.

“ By heavens, you confer too great an honor upon rue-by
alwa 's using my name as a shield!”

“ ould you wish me to provide myself with another?”

“ Of course.” _ ' u

“ Your wish is already gratified. I have found a most
excellent shield, or, more properly speaking, a talisman.”

“ And what does that consist of P”

“ That is my secret; you must be satisfied with the re-
sult. You see it before on.”

“ But,” exclaimed E win, malicious] , “ do you know
‘who this letter is from, which has delig ted you so much
to be )ei‘mitted to fetch?” , '

“ hat does that signify to me?”

“ Suppose it were from another lover!”

“ What a confounded stupid idea!”

“ Nay, it is' a capital idea of hers to get you to fetch it.”

“ To what black thoughts will envy not give rise i” cried
Victor. .

“And,” retorted Edwin, “how unreasonably blindis
simplicity, when coupled with selfishness!”

“ I care nothing for your hints respecting myself; but
you accuse the purest of women of an unworthy actionf?

 

   

 

 

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m

“ Oh dear, no! merely an action which does honor to
her wit.”

“ I tell on,” 11protested the lawyer, “it would be an un—
worthy ion, ' , just at this moment, when all the world
fancies that she is mournin her husband’s loss, she did-3’

. "‘ Poor simpleton,” said dwin, interruptin his brother,
"' would ,you think she deserved to be calle unworthy if
she listened to you, or to me? Well, why may she not
have listened to at third, who was sooner in the field than
we: were ?”

“ You will never induce me to put faith in this abomin-
able insinuation.”

“ You are becoming quite deranged. Why abominable?”

“ Enou h; this young widow is undoubtedly a noble and
, ure-min ed creature. I respect her as much as I love
ier, and I will not insult her a minute longer by listening
to ou.’

‘5‘, Well, well, I know nothing about her.
the address!”

“ Yes, look at it. If you understand any thin of such
matters you must perceive that this is alady’s han writing;
fiesideg, the very way the letter is folded betrays a woman s

and.

“ I must admit the truth of what you say.”

“So you do see that. Now farewell! Iam ofl to Tys-
selvik'with this precious document.”

“ You surely won’t be such an idiot, nor so barefaced as

I to ex ct her to receive you at this hour of the morning!”

“ h, no. I merely intend to deliver the letter to the
first trustworthy person who presents himself. My reward

. will come in its own good time.”

1' * * i II! t

It was half-past seven o’clock when the grated gate at
Tysselvik was thrown open by a man-servant, for our cava-
lier on horseback. ,

Behind the jalousie of a window, the most outward rim
of lace, belonging to a mourning cap, peeped forth—more
was not visible.

But another window was flung 0 on with a loud noise,
and Ma’amselle So hie stretched orth her head in curl
pgpefrs, and covere with a bright-coloredgilk handker-
c 1e .

“Bless me, Mr. Victor Wallenberg, you here so early!”
and the oficious Ma’amselle So hie, thinking it a sad pity

that the young gentleman shou d be condemned merely to

- speak to the men-servants, hastened down stairs; not how-
ever, before she had torn off her curl- a ers and pushed
back her long locks behind her ears, to fpalfin ringlets over
her neck.

Sophie was not (Luite pleased with the young lawyer, on
account of the off- and way in which he had received her
, favors; notwithstanding, however, it was a small diversion
, in this dead and alive place, to make another attempt.
' But, racious, how. indi nant she became when she per-
ceiv the young man, w ile she was yet making the most

Y

Let us look at

awkward 0 all awkward courtesies, deliberate turn his
horse, and, consequently, his own person, in her very face.
“This is pretty politeness, indeed. I thank you hum-
bl , sir! But, stop, are you not going to speak to a soul,
r. Wallenberg?” ' ‘
“ Oh, I have spoken to the lad alread . However, have
the goodness, ma’amselle, to take that letter there, which
, I received ‘yesterday in town, and convey it immediately to
Mrs. Bendelvik.”
“Heavens above, there can be no such fearful hurry!
Perhaps yOu will wait, sir, until I have taken it to her.”
“It is‘not necessary, ma’amselle,” he cried, as he rode
. ofl in'great haste. ,
, y as s s s s: a
What were the contents of this mucholonged-for letter,
 ' we know not, but one thing is certain, that at least twenty
» , times in the course of that day, the young widow’s eyes and
-. . lipswereanimated with a smile, and one could easily ob-
. v  .serve'vthat this su’nny- smile came from her heart.

 

 

rm! BROTHERS‘ an. _ v t .

“It is most cheerin and refreshing to see ou 1001233
so happy,” exclaimed a’amselle Sophie, unab e to con
her astonishment.

Mathilde started at these words, and, wra ping herself
again in the veil of her widow’s grief, looked li e—a Niobe.

 

CHAPTER XI.
corinnmvrmr. BULLETINS.

THREE days had passed since Victor had performed the ,

character of postman, but still no reward had been heard
of. '

This was the more vexatious, because Edwin did not al-
low his arrogance to fade from his memory, and continu-
ally asked him, in the most spiteful tone of voice, if he
would not soon be a 'ing his res cts to his beautiful lady
love, or if he intends to wait at iome until she should be
pleased to make use of him again as courier. -,

“ Go to the devil with your absurd uestions, and leave
me in peace!” cried Victor, when, on t 1e fourth morning
of these most uncomfortable days, his patience was entirely
exhausted.

“ Would you not like me first to tell you a piece of news
which I have athered while you dared not move from
home for fear 0% missing some message from your inflexible
one?”

Victor pretended he did not hear.

“Well, I will not trouble you. Besides, it is upon the

' whole too much generosity on 13 part to repeat to a rival
’

the reports which I have reoeiv

“ As you lease, my dear fellow; I perceive, however,
that you are Just as dyin to speak as I am to hear. Come,
out with it—don’t be m est, pray!”

“ Hem!”

“ This little witch shall not disturb the good feeling be-
tween us. In the solitude of this place, where no other
diversion remains for us, we might at least speak of her.”

“ Well and good!” said Edwin.

“ But what 18 your source of information?"

“ That is my secret,” replied the rector.

“ Which is more transparent than mine. I imagine that
you have been silly enough toward yourself—nota bene——to
consent to the encouragements of my rejected siren.”

“ No matter; like the confidante in the comedy, she is
exceedineg useful.”

“ Ah,” cried Victor, “ so you have let yourself down—”

“ Like many greater men than I; by-the-by, I remember
that you yourself once said it was the custom even among
the ancient heathens to be in with the waiting-maid.”

“I was not in earnest— ut it’s all one; what have you
learned ?”

“ Well, listen; since our charmer received the letter you
brought her, a secret 'oy has filled her, \which she tries in
vain to conceal from ophie; still there seems to be a con-
tradiction in the whole thing. Several times lately, par-

ticularly yesterday evening, when she returned from, her ‘

sail on the lake, she was more excited, and more over-
whelmed than Sophie ever remembers to have seen her
before.”

“Well, but you forget her continual sufferings,” sug-
gested the young lawyer.

“ It is not that kind of suflering which has now taken‘ ‘

possession of her, it was a violent uneasiness, which almost
amounted to fear.”
“ Something ma have befallen her on the way.”

“It is not proba 1e,” replied Edwin; “ besides, the lad.

who usually rows her, declares that nothing occurred while
they Were on the water.
that a trifling fright would have suchan eflect upon her as

~ to make her pace her'chamber the livelong night, at which”

Sophie-7”
\ “ Ha, so the bad girl actually listened.”
“ Of course.” . -.

, .  .
V‘H‘ ‘ . ' ’-' v . - ,. ~-. \
I .V ,,

  
 

Q: , .
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7.. ~.. s  :2 m; 
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, Mme.  ..,, .

Be that as it may, is it likely ', .

 

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THE BROTHERS‘ BIT.

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y - . . ‘ i K
‘ N i i ‘ s

 

 

" “And what did she hear?” ,

“ She heard,” continued Edwin, “ how our beauty wept
and wrung her hands, murmuring at intervals halfobroken
sentences, such as—‘ Alas, alas! This is very improper.
I will not—I dare not, and will not agree.”’

“ Edwin,” said Victor, while a deep glow dyed even his
brow,. “ it appears to me that you are acting dishonestly.
Hang it if I wish in this manner to obtain any information
whatever, respecting her.”

Edwin was silent. He took two or three turns up and
down the room, with his hands behind his back.

“Sincerely speaking,” at len th he exclaimed, “I am
of the same opinion as yoursel , and I wish that this ab-
surd folly had never been brought forward; but this is an
affair which concerns self-love, and self-love is a sensitive

I mistress.”

“ Abbve all, brother, it is an afiair which concerns honor,
and honor is even more sensitive than self-love.”

“ Are you so very punctilious?” . .

“In certain cases allow m conscience to influence me,
and a oor innocent woman w 0 has done us no harm, can-
not he p that a con le of idle young fellows have chosen
to fall in love with er. She might be left in peace in her
own house, at all events.”

“The more so,” added the rector, “ because I will not
swear that I am madly in love with her. I even confessed
as much to her in my letter.”

“ What, have you alread 'owned that to her?”

, “ Yes, I have; I could t ink of no other way of account-

- ing to her, with honor, for my deep interest in her."

“ Blockhead, such impetuosity might have been in keep-
ing with my character, but that you should do such a thing,
\was downright madness.” .

“ No, it was politic. I did not play my game badly, I
assure you, only she is so unlike all other women, that
nothing produces an effect u n her.”

“ Then you received a decided refusal?”

“ Rightly eased; but it does not prevent my being
more eager t an before to accomplish my purpose. It is
the old story, 0 position excites to 0 on. But let us
promise each 0t er not to spy on er throu h others.
that were abominablebmean, an we must not ave that
lain to our door.”

“Hush, some one is coming,” said Edwin, asa maid-
servant entered, and handed the rector a note.

1 “ What is that?” cried Victor, as soon as they were again
a one.

“ A bulletin from Sophie, whom I left only two hours

‘ ago; what can she have to communicate?”

“ Make haste and read it.”

“ Brother,” answered the rector, “ do you forget what
duty and conscience prohibits? No, no, we must not do-
mean ourselves, we will be heroes, and burn this letter.”

“ But, at all events—”

“ Atall events,” repeated Edwin, interrupting his brother,
“honor is more sensitive than self-love. I will make an
alumette of it. The greater the temptation, the greater
the virtue at having con uered.”

Victor was silent, and dwin continued:

“Let us 091116 to 301110 determination. Shall we burn
the letter, give up the widow—and our bet—and set off

tocmorrow morning for some watering-place?”
“ Could on do this?” .

“I can 0 an

“ But,” ur
two months.’

' “ We might persuade her to accompany us. Then it is
decided, we are to at an endto this absurd affair?”

The rector seiz a taper, and opened the little box con-
tainin the matches.’ .

“ . sit a minute. I do think I really am on tivated. I
cannot give her up in this manner, althou'g I sincerely
Wish I had the con to be you to.burn the note.”

“ Thus it always s,” sai the rector; “people wish

thing tr0 Which I make up my mind.”
Victor, “ we have promised my mother

   

 

themselves every possible quality to lead them to choose
riorht.
ngend of excellent phrases when at rs are in question;
but when the time arrives to act. upon them themselves—3'

“ Enough of your moralizing; n the note at once.”

Victor spoke these words ea er y, yet in a determined
tone. Almost instantly the sea was broken, .and Edwm
read aloud:

“DEAR Mn. WALLENBERG: Out of friendship for you
I must inform you that madame has been talking of asking

your brother to come here this afternoon, to look at some -

legal documents. ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘ there can not be a more
learned and a more clever gentleman than the rector.’ ‘I
do not doubt it,’ she answered; ‘ but he is not a lawyer.’
‘ But madame, since you are always so particular, permit
me to remark that the rector ought perhaps to be present;
no one could say a word against two, but one-—”’

“What asly confidante!” exclaimed Victor, who with
difficulty restrained his laughter. “You have a capital

U

all '
’I‘he rector did not answer, but continued to read-—

“‘Your frankness, my dear So hie,’ replied madame,
‘can only be excused by your goo intention, but I have

my reasons for seeing Mr. Victor Wallenberg this time

,)'

alone.

“This time!” cried both the brothers, almost in one
breath. The letter ended with the following sentence,
which the rector hurried over, half muttering,

r.

“I flatter myself I have been of use to yen, sir, and it

will be a pleasure to me always to remain your friend.

“ Sopma TOLANDEB.”

“ Hang it, the aflair is becoming interesting,” cried
Victor, as the rector tore up the epistle.
pear to have gained hope.”

“ It is evidently clear,” admitted Edwin, “that you
have now got the advanta e.” _

“Yes, perhaps as lega adviser; that, of course, is as
clear as that this note, over which we pondered so much,
concerns matters of business.”

“ Well, 1 have given you my confidence, and I hope,
when you come home, you intend to do what is right, and
pay me back in the same coin.”

“ Upon my honor I will tell you every thing which can
interest you. Remember, however, that we lawyers are a
kind of father confessors, and we must keep sacred the
secrets confided to us.” I

“kNp crooked Ways with me; go straight 'forward to
wor .

“ It may all be a misunderstanding, or a tale of Ma’am- ‘

selle Sophie’s invention.”
It roved to be neither the one nor the other; an hour

later Irs. Bendelviksent aservent to request Mr. Victor 

Wallenberg to do her the favor to call at her house that
afternoon. The motor began to grumble, but Victor was
radiant with joy. As usual, when he was fortunate, ‘he
became presum tuous, and taunted his rival; however,
they both looks forward to the afternoon with equal im—
patience.

\
—_

CHAPTER XII.

ENCOURAGEIENT wrrnoc'r LAW. ,

“ IT is warm to-rday, Sophie, assist me to take 03 this

black dress, and re me one of

silver grey with t e white flowers. i

Sophie brou ht the light dress, but she was too discreet
to show that ine was surprised. . \ -
N o, the waiting-maid did not appear astonished, eve

\

 

People can preach admirably, can bring forward "
e

“ We both ap-

my summer ,muslins, the ~

 

 

 

is , I ' I. ‘ ‘ T31? momma BET. /

 

W.»_-.—_~.__.__........ . -._.- .... V» . . . .._._....,

when she observed with what care her mistress began and
finished her toilette. She was ver 'nearly utterin an ex-
clamation of surprise, however, w on she beheld t 10 usuali-
,ly 'ndiflerent Mathilde three times take off, and again )ut
on, the black lace cap which almost concealed her goiden
hair, but/finally hang it on the ed 6 of the dressing-glass.

“I am curious to know,” thoug it Sophie, “what will be
the end of this.”

“Sophie—” The pretty widow seemed to have some dif-
ficult in forcing herself to utter the following words:
“Sophie, I think, somewhere in my wardrobe, I have a
lilac and black silk net.”

““ch, madam, with three lappets, which hang down at
the side. Your dress-maker said it would be most becom-
ing to you.” '

“I do not care how I look in the net; itis cool and light;

. brin it here.”

“ , bless me i I never could have ima rined such a
thing,” Sophie continued to reason with herse f. “As sure
as 1am alive she is in love with the lawyer, but if I have
any influence he shall be thrown overboard, the stupid,
saucy young fellow, and not to have eyes to see that there
are more ladies in the world than one.”

Even a strong will is not always able to accomplish its
desire, and this afternoon there was every likelihood that
Ma’amselle Sophie Would be obliged to display very great
talent and tact indeed in order to bringinto disfavor the
gentleman upon whose downfall she had determined.

* * * * * * *

True to his new character, our ypung lawyer made his
appearance with the air of a man prevented by aprior
a. ection from allowing any other feelings to sway him, ex-
cept those of friendship and humanity. He had brought
forth from his mother’s jewel-case an old gold rin , which
he frequently rubbed with his pecket—handkercrief, not

for the sake of making it bright, for the ring was in good
preservation, but in order to t raw the young widow’s atten-
timi to this pledge of fidelity which had been given to him
».‘by another. '

. Never before had. he seen Mathilde looking so well as she

did on that day. It is true a shade of interestin sadness
still lingered on her brow, but the melancholy w ich even
clouded the brilliancv of her eves, had, on this occasion,
some affinity to earth. So much is certain, as she slowly
raised her long, silken eyelashes, and gazed at her guest,
he felt as if he had received a sudden shock; but quickly
recoverin his self-possession, hc bowed as calmly as if he
were stam ing before a total stranger.

Notso with her, however. “.1 have to thank you, Mr.
Wallenberg,” she said, as with a gracefulmovement she
offered him her hand, “for your extreme kindness in—
in—” she broke off, blushing deeply, and much embar-
rassed.

' “‘I consider myself very fortunate, madame, in having
been of service to you, even in so triflinga matter as fetch-
. mg a letter.” .

“This letter was of importance to me.”

“I perceive so,” repliet Victor, “and erhaps, in conse-
quence of its contents, I am honored Wit your commands
to present myself to you to-day.”

' he blushes on the young widow’s cheeks now deepened
to urple, which made her so charming that it was only with
an card-of difficulty thatthe enamored Victor could main-
tain his advantage as disinterested observer.

“1 fancied, perhaps, you might have. some complicated
to al question to place before me, and possibl the letter
w ich you received contained an explanation 9. out which
you were anxious to ask me.”

Mathilde smiled in amost eculiar manner. Then she
seemed to be reflecting, as if his words had given her
then hts a new direction. ‘

, ‘ ‘ edeuce!” mentally exclaimed our lover, “supposing
the information given by Edwip’s corresspondent were not

6

 

quite authentic—hang it, she might have merely prelenrlwl
to her waiting-maid that she wished to speak to her lawyer-
and I, blockhead that I am, may have marred my own fer-
tune.” '

“Have the goodness, Mr. Wallenberg, to come and sit
by me on the sofa, and we will then speak to each other.”

“With much )leasure,” replied Victor, but in despair he
rubbed away at his ring, for the silence that ensued began
to be rather embarrassing.

“I have, indeed, a question to put,” reeommeneed Ma-
thilde, as though she had not observed that there had been
such along pause, “a straightforward answer to which is
of the greatest importance to me.”

“I am at your service, madame.”

“But I do not know if I have the courage to proceed i”

“ The courage— Do you intend to put this question to
the lawyer, or to the man 1’” ‘

“ To both, sir!”

“ Indeed?”

“ Yes, truly.”

“ Well, then, think only of the lawyer, and you will have
the courage to say all that you may wish. Can one not
speak to a physician about every thing respecting the body.
to a clergyman about uevery thing respecting the soul?
Why, then, should one hesitate to speak to a lawyer about
every thing respecting personal affairs?"

“But these personal affairs might be very closely con—
nected with secrets which concern the heart.”

“ Quite true, hence it is that those who fill the position
of judge have far more opportunity than other people of
penetrating these secrets w iich belong to the most inti—
mate relationship of family life, and lead to long lawsuits.”

“ But,” replied Mathilde with downcast e es, “ one has
not always the right words at command, and think,” nifiv
in her turn she began to twist her wedding-ring—“ I
shall not be able to find them to-day.”

“ Need you be on so much ceremony with me, madame

“ I know not how it happens, but your manners to~day,
which are so totally different from those on your first visit,
inspire me, if not exactly with fear, at least with a certain
uneasiness.”

“ Hang it,” swore Victor, aota bane, to himself, “I de-
clare she is literally encouraging me. What a blessed idea
that was of the betrothal ring. v We must now try and
push the affair on cleverly.”

a"

“The last time, madame,” began Victor, in the most‘

dignified manner. “ The last time I behaved like a fool,
and it is a great blessing that I have \still a wholesome re-
collection of my fault.”

Mathilde did not answer.

“Might I venture to tell you why it is a blessing?”

“If you like.”

“ It is a blessing because there are intoxicating faults
which might perhaps lead a poor sinner into the tempta-
tion of again rushing into dan er, if memory did not warn
him that the temptation woul be punishéd.”

“ conscience?” asked Mathilde, innocentl .

“ Mhdame!” Victor gave the young lady a 00k of un-
disguised admiration.

“ Have you heard lately from your fiancee?” she inquir-
ed, as a roguish smile layed around her lips. ‘

“ You are extreme y kind, to take so much interest in
me—but are we not wandering sadly from our subject?”

“I am very sorry to have 1ven you so much trouble for
nothing. But the more I think of it, the mere impossible

I find it to-day to speak with you of this matter in ques-‘

tion.”

“ Will you grant me permission, then, once and away,
to pay my respects to you?”

“ wil not decline your re uest, indeed Inever should
have .wished, to have deprive myself of the pleasure of
intellectual society, if, from the beginning of our acquaint-
ance, you had held out such a warran'it for it.” . .'

\

 

 

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' » profit by your advice to-morrow morning, respecting what

 

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“Admit, madame. that if I appear in a new character,
you also present vein-self in one quite as new.”

“Every one has moments when life looks more cheer-
ful. Bu I must not trespass any longer upon your time
and atience," she said, rismg. ' .

“ lay I call again to-morrow afternoon?” urged VictOr.

“ N 0t to-morrow, but the day after to-morrow," replied
Mathilde. _

“ In the morning, or in the afternoon?”

“ In the morning—to-dav is an exception; I wish to
keep the afternoons to myself.”

After the young lawyer had left the room, his assumed
gravity scarcely sup rcssing the beaming joy of his coun-
tenance, Mathilde tirew herself back on the sofa, lost in
deep thought. One would have fancied she had utterly
forgotten the scene just enacted, and her partner in the
same, but it was not so; for, after long and serious reflec-
tion, she said in the sweetest of under-tones:

“ What else can I do, young and unprotected as I am ?”

A half an hour later she rang for Sophie, and asked—

“ Is the boat ready?”

‘V‘ Yes, madame.”

“ It is well, give me my bonnet.”

 

CHAPTER XIII.
A MYSTERIOL'S SOUND.

_ QN uitting Tysselvik, Victor, being seized by an irre-
sxstiblcfionging for solitude, directed his steps toward: the
agreeable grotto among the clifis, where we first made the
acquaintance of the brothers. A similar feelin had ver
possibly arisen in the breast of the rector, for lie had a -
ready taken possession of this identical spot.

.“Congratulate me!” cried Victor, who could not keep
his hopes to himself, since fate had throwm his brother in

13 Way.

“ You ought rather to congratulate me!" replied Edwin,
. rawmg a tiny pink note, in the young Widow’s handwrit-
lng, out of his pocket. ‘

“ What is the meaning of this?" demanded Victor, With
flus'; d cheeks.

“ Look!” ,

Victor snatched the note from his brother, and read the
ollowang, in a voice broken with anger:

,“ Sim—As I can re] upon on that the subject we dis-
cussed last is exhauste , and orever set seide, I 'wish to

ooksI had better read during my stay in the country.
. “ MATIIILDE BENDELVIK.”

The brothers azed long at each other.

f‘Now, what 0 you say to that?” began the rector. “ Is
this not an unexpected happiness? You may as well look
upon her. as my wife, and relinquish your claims at once.”

“Wk “111% her as 'our wife, indeed! lam perfectly
.convmced t rat I shall win the bet, and the note to you is a
mom Pt“ 9'“ to set me rackiii my brains, or to inspire
me With 3 h,0f jealousy, whic i may give rise to a little
scene 01' two between us. She understands what she is
0u to confine yourself to the more
deth Character 0‘ rother—iu-law, for another character
Will never fall toyour lot.”

“,Concelted "110“ are you in earnest when ou compare
VYQng'Cbangesloflsufcessl with mine?” sneered dwin.

can t e an nu and it 'n u or book-

worm,” retortedeictgr. g p y] 8 yo ’ p0

“ What sort of a lawsuit did she have to entrust to you ?”

‘i There was no mention of a lawsuit. Can’t you under.
Btfind that the waiting-maid was deceived? Can’t you an.

in every age. people make use of pretexts

C

 

.g

“ Poorl fellow, can’t you understand what it is to govern 4

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by the power of the mind? that is what I intendi to do—
but, .hush—listen—do you not hear music in the distance?
She 18 coming!” I

“ Ah! I hear her too—Oh, my enchanting fair one, shall

I then be permitted to listen once-more this evening to the I

melodious sound of your voice?”

“ Silence! Hold your tongue—she draws near.”

There was, )I‘OfOlllld silence in the grotto; meanwhile the
boat approac ed in which the young widow was sitting,
without any suspicion of being overlooked. The brothers
knew a s ot, where, once before, they had enjoyed some
delightfu moments and without giving each other a hint
of what they were about to do, they both slipped into this
retreat.

When Mathilde did make her up arancc, how different
she looked from when they had rst beheld her. Her
countenance now actual] beamed with the thoughts which
were passmg in her mind:

She sang as angels would sin
let their heavenly music be heard
was descriptive of love, bliss, delight. Now and then she
cast a lingering, searching lance alon the banks. She
seemed to shudder at every breath of Wind which agitated
the bou hs of the trees, but as no human form presented
itself, 5 e evident] became re-assured, and her lovely
countenance was animated with inward by

At length the boat disappeared behin the dark outlines

if they condescended to

"of two projecting rocks, and soon after the tones died

away, but at that moment the brothers started.
“ What was that?” they asked, simultaneously, as they»
gazed in astonishment in every direction. '
“Could it be an echo?”
“Could it be a shepherd’s fife?”

“Neither the one nor the other; it was much more like-

ly to be her deceased husband answering her from Heaven. ”

“ Yes, the tones did seem to come from above, or one
might almost be tempted to believe it were a water nymph,
striking his Silver harp!”

“ Wonderful!”

“ Strange!”

The brothers had heard sounds which seemed to 'be
answering the lady’s sweet music; Of course it was only
fauc , but the incident had made them both serious, and
011 t ieir way home they totally left off their mutual boast-
iiig.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE sscoun RECEPTION.

WE are now in a pavilion which belongs to the T sselvik
property. Mathilde—once more dressed in blue , again
serious and melancholy—is Sitting at the window waiting
for her other lover, whose turn it is to-day to pay his re-
spects to her. .

She did not have to wait long before the rector, Mr.
Wallenberg, made liisiappearance. It is possible, potwith-_
standing his asseveration to the contrary, that he hoped to
work upon her heart; there was something conceited in his

smile, and way of greeting her, which displeased Mathilde, '

for she received him with cold formality. .
“ You are doubtless surprised that I have taken this”
step,” she began in so unconstrained and dignified a man-
ner that it ought to have chased all conceit; but the rec-
tor’s conceit, when once awakened, was not so easily
chased away. .
“B no means, madame,” answered he; “ I have all
along 0 that on would do me this favor.” ‘
Mathi de drew erself u ) stiflly. as she replied, in a tone
of annoyance: “Althougi I have been forced, for reasons
known tu myself, to alter my determination in one respect,
I am b no means obliged to alter it in another.”
Edwm Wallenberg began at length to comprehend that

women do not always wish people to meet their whims

half-way.

upon earth. The melody ‘

\

\,

 

 

 

 

—-———-
-—-—-

“I am truly‘ unfortunate, madame, in having drawn u —
on myself your displeasure by an unguarded answer; stiil,
I think it was not necessary to repeat what you have al-
read announced with so much precision.”

“ ndeed it was necessary, for I saw at once by your
manners that you had deceived yourself respecting the
meaning of. my note. Now, however, I hope that we un-
derstan each other, and we will speak of something else.”

“Certainly, madame. You referred to the choice of
some books.’

“ We will return byland-by to this subject. Tell me
first how long is it since our brother was engaged?”

“M brother—engaged!”

“ Will, yes.”

“ This is a question I assure you which is not easy for
me to answer.’

“Why not?”

“ What can be the meaning of this?” thought the rector;
“can Victor have iven himself out to be engaged—or is it
an idea of hers? t all events it would be a pity to rectify
this innocent mistake;” but aloud he replied:

“My brother's secrets are not mine, allow me therefore
to consider the question as not put to me.”

“ This was a politic answer, I hope,” he continued
again, aside.
. “Ah, so it is a secret engagement; I beg pardon for my
indiscretion.”

“ But who could have told ybu P” asked Edwin.

“Himself.”

"‘ Himself!”

“Yes; and as he wears a ring, I supposed the affair was

known.”

- “ Oh, indeed, so he wears a ring; he has never shown
it to me.” .

“ And have you never seen his intended?" inquired the
widow.

“No, that I have not; at least, not that I am aware of,”
answered the rector, who did not know how he should turn
to his advantage the strange piece of intelligence which

’ he had just heard.

‘ their hopes, yet these. hopes never seemed on an

“ I should think, as her cousin, you ought to know a
certain Bertha, who—according to her intended—is a lady
of much merit.”'

“My dear madame, Ifeel myself in a strange position
at present, and I must trust to your generosity to allow- of
my esca e.”

Mathilde made a movement of assent, and immediately,
as if nothing else had been spoken of, she entered upon a
most serious literary discourse, durin which the rector
found a legitimate o ortunity of dis aying his much and
varied knowledge. life had gradual y assumed his usual
modest, agreeable, and thoughtful bearing.

a: s: an as e a t

' “I have assed a most pleasant and instructive hour,”
said athil e, when her guest arose to take her departure.
“I ou are not merely flattering me, madame, you
might we me a proof of the sincerity of your words.”
“ I s all have much pleaSure in doing so. Come again
the day after to—morrow, at the same time; every second

‘ mornin is for you.”

“ An every other for—?”
‘f Let us retain the agreeable impression of each other
which we possess at present,” she hastily said, as she made

'a slight bow which obliged her guest to put an end to his
, morning

call. ~

,The visits of the brothers became regular after this time.
On Monday Edwin aid his respects to the widow, on
Tndsda Victor paid is, and so on throughout the week.

. But t ough the brothers boasted greatly to each other of

nearer realization. Love was asubject strictly forbid en as

» {was it. respected the widow herself. They; spoke the
more, therefore, of the wonderful power of t ~

is feeling,

\ i
I

m averages 322'.

day ‘

 

-..
‘

 

but the more they dwelt on this power—tile rector quoting ii» I

traditional examples, which he took the trouble to hunt
up from the most remote pages of history, Victor select-
ing his from the newest novels—the colder Mathilde be-

came, and she never looked up unless her lovers from time:

to time seemed about to break from her thankless chains.
Then a sigh, a glance, or a smile, and they were fascinated
again. "

In this manner two or more weeks were passed. The
time when the bet should be decided had already half ex-
pired.

“ I really sincerely think,” said Edwin, one morning
when, it was his turn to pay the visit, “ I really sincerely
think that your case is not very promising, Victor. You

must perceive yourself that your law disclosures do not '

progress.” .

“ You are quite right with respect to the law, of course,”
answered Victor, with a self-satisfied smile. “ She defers
from day to day the question which she wishes to put
to me.” ‘

“ The lawsuit, then, has merely been a retext?”

“ Naturally. She expects, very probab y, that I, on my
part, should put a question.”

“ Oh, never!” cried the rector, laughing.
knows that you are cnga ed.”

“ She well,

This was the first time that- Edwin alluded to the ‘V

matter. .

“ Ah, so you know that story?”

“ She has no secrets from me,” replied Edwin. ,

“ Indeed—then perhaps on are also aware what advan-
tages my engagement has 0 taincd for me P” .

“ Bali!” retorted the rector, who knew nothing about it,
though he assumed, nevertheless, a knowing look.

N ow it Was Victor’s turn to burst out in a hearty laugh; ‘

“I see through you, brother mine.”
“ Hush—I hear my mother coming.” I, ‘ ,
It was Mrs. Wallcnberg, as EdWin had guessed, who was

anxious to announce to her sons that they might shortly .

expect another diversion in their solitude. But we will
not collect the news from Mrs. Wallenberg herself; it is

before our readers.

enclosed in another correspondence, which we will now lay '

CHAPT‘ER xv.
[Correspondence]

MISS HILDA VON LENKEN’s LETTER TO are SISTER.

“DEAREST 'BERTHA: Iean no longer withstand your
affectionate and constant entreaties; I will tell you the
truth. Alas, pride is an enemy diflicult to be overcome!
The triumphs which pride has obtained over me by hard
fighting, have made my very- heart bieed. -

“ You are right. All the gaiety of this bathin -place is
killing me—besides, the last ays of the appoint "
fast approaching, and yet he has not come.

“ I hide my burning brow in the paper, which seems to’
We poor women are born to endure...

redden at my blushes.
humiliation, and we may not even complain. Dear, s -
pathizing girl, how could I‘ have So 'long withstood t 036

eyes which day after day earnestly entreated my'confie'

deuce i
you.
review the past. \

“It is now rather more than three years a
as we arrived opposite the Torup Hotel, our light carriage

Pardon me, for now I will conceal nothing from

was very nearly upset by coming into colliSiloh with agig, U.

which came dashing along at a tremendous rate. ,7 I»

' " Bertha, Bertha, do you remember how frightened we, 4.
were, and how we would have been pitched into the ditch, -
if the. gentleman who was driving the gig had not thiy

sprung out, and seized the reins-of‘our herses. : r - "if

“ Even now tears fill my eyes at the recollth of 

strange, delightfuljeeling which came over me; as I’beheld

iZ'

time is

But to make my position more clear to you, lotus f

 

 

gortha't jaa', , 

 

 

 

 

’ ,
I

him,/_so'ha.ndsome, so courageous, yet with anxiety painted
on his pale, manly countenance, standing there, almost

like one of the mail-clad heroes of old, holding back our

terrified horses.

“And afterward, Bertha, when he accompanied us into
the best room of the inn, where he played the host, while
our usual protector, old Lars Peter, took care of himself,
:10 you recollect how, in the exuberance of our spirits, we
both forgot mama’s repeated warning, ‘ dear girls, be
prudent when you are in the society of young men.’ Did
we not tell him how, during papa's absence from home,
mama had given us leave to drive into town to make
some purchases for papa’s birthday ? Did we not describe
to~him, even to minute details, the grand fete which we
were going to celebrate ? Did we not listen to his advice,
and did we not end by declaring, should he be passing in

‘ our neighborhood, that nothing would be more delightful
‘ than that our new acquaintance should surprise us at the

fate, and take a part in the merry doings ?

“ He smiled kindly and sadly at our youthful conversa-
tion, and gazed upon us, I fancied, almost as if he pitied

much innocence and childishness. And thus we parted.

11, that we had parted forever . But it was thcrwise de-
creed, and I thought I should have fainted when, at the
beginning of that memorable fete, you came rushing in,
and whispered in my ear:

“ ‘The gentleman, whose name we do not know, but
whom we invited for papa’s birthday, is in the court-yard.
What shall we say to papa and mama ?’

“ We stood transfixed, like two criminals, but ere we Iiad
summoned up courage to move. we beheld, to our astonish-
ment, papa himself ushering in the guest, and he presented
him to us as his young friend Major Richard 11—. It ap-
peared that papa and he had met several times before, and
as our acquaintance with him now also became known. it
ilmost seemed as if we had been intimate all our lives.

“ But why do I repeat this ? You know it well already.

“ Yes, es ; but you do not know—at least I hope not—
I, impru ent irl that Iwas, did not sufficiently restrain
my feelings w ien I chanced _to .find myself alone with
him. Either my conscience, it is, WIIICI will speak, or
the craving of love to excuse the loved one—enough, I

.fihink—I must admit it—I know my heart yearned toward
, ‘ im.
'I so far forgot myself as to betray my secret by any weak-

I call God to witness, my dear Bertha, that I never

ness on my part; still he was encouraged—hateful word——
I would give a year of my life to be able to retract it, but
that is not possible, forI have promised to tell you the
whol'etruth.

“He never attem ted to conceal the terrible indiffer-
8909, and gloomy dbjection which, at times, came over
him. Notwithstanding, it is impossible for me to express
to 3’01} how charming and interesting he appeared to me.
’Was It surprising, then, that I accepted him, when, after
a few Week! of excitement and happiness, he so unexpect-
edly roplose'd to me? ‘ ,

“ us , hush, Bertha, I remember your objections with-
out your rePetting them to me. You were then only fif-
teen 79?“ 0f age. but you were more sensible than I was.
You said ‘ Walt—it seems to me that all is force work, and
unnatural With this man.’ And mama, alas! our dear
mother, W110 W39 Stlll among us, she also said ‘ wait.’

“But alas! youno. foolish, impetuous, I had not the

atience to walt— was hurried forward, as it were, and I
came engaged, allOng m '8le to be bound with the be-
trothal ring, aImOSt bCfOI‘e had time to think of the
possibility of such an event taking lace.
‘ “And from that day forward, ear Bertha, you began
{0 Mplain that Iwas changed; from that day forward

you said my heart was sealed to you. Still on continued

ass of

to read,“ secret pages through the ‘magni ying

. presentiment. It was my‘firm de‘ermin‘ation that a l which
 Passed betWeen Richard and myself, between his heart and
" mine; sheiu’dsmmain sacred. Though [others might ob-

..‘
4o l . \

rm momma rm.

 

serve, by my pretending not to see, I miglit free niyseif \‘  ’.

from pity and advice, and perhaps from eing persuaded
to do that to which I was resolved not to agree.

“ You remember that Richard. who. is independent as
regards fortune, urged, with almost feverish vehemence,
that we might be married early in the autumn, and papa, a
poor captain, only just promoted, proprietor of a small es-
tate, and a few houses, saw no reason why he should con
sent to nrnna's wish to defer the marriage. Her wish

,a
I

   

was carried out, however—the Almighty removed her from '~

us, and the wedding was put off.
“New I must tell you of the most bitter moments 'I ever

experienced since ‘hosc, so sad and full of anguish, at
mama’s death-bed. ‘

' “ It was a fortnight after the funeral; Richard, who had

not been able to come on the da 'of the burial, had just
arrived, and you saw h w sincere y he seemed to share our
grief. He could only remain one week with us, and at
the end of that time, he said to me one evening, in a veiee
trembling with agitation:

“ ‘ What time did you fix for our marriage to take place,
good IIilda?’ .

“ Good Hilda—he now seldom said dearest, not even
when we were alone, and yet once, when you remarked the
want of affection in his mode of addressin me, I had the
weakness to say, ‘ Pshawl would you likehim to resemble
those insipid lovers. who parade their feelings to ever
one’s gaze? Sensible lovers reserve endearing terms an
marks of affection for their totem-{etc meetings, into which
the world cannot pry.’ '

“ But on the occasion in question it was not this ‘ good
Hilda’ which wounded my heart, although it sounded more
likes term of friendship than an expression of love; no, it
was. the restlessness of his manner, his voice, which he
vainly strove to steady. There was no entreaty in his

tone, at least not such as I, feel that I was, so longed to .

hear.

0

“Three months had passed since he had entered u n
his hurried engagement. The fever which had urged im‘
on toit, had cooled down. My answer was, ‘ As long as 1
am in mournin for my mother I cannot lay aside in black
dress for a sing e day.’ Under the circumstances could
not have answered otherwise. 5

f‘ ‘ And how long do daughters wear mourning ?’ he inc
quired.

“ ‘Some six months, others a whole year,’ I replied. ’

He did not ask which of the two I would do, and for
twelve long months he never once mentioned the subject
again. I.
“It isnot fissible for me to describe to you how this
patience on his part pained and mort fied me. I ' remem—
er when, once and away, he paid us a visit, you used
to fix your fond, anxious eyes u on me, and sometimes you
ventured to say: ‘If Richard were my intended,. his
journeyings here should stop forever.’ ‘ And why so?’ IanJ

my triumph !-for I be ieve that I should have die' if you,

or anyone else, had seen whatl suffered, when I was {it '

liberty to resign myself to my own reflections. a .
“ ‘ Does he ever pay you in society the usual little atten-

tions of a lover?’ you would reply. ‘D008 b

you attention when on are alone at home?

“ I would succee in assumiii
and answer, with a coura e which might well have been
called heroic: ‘ My dear ertha, you are far too romantic
and ridiculous in your expectations: Richard’s way of ex-_

an air of astonishment,»

‘swcred in my quiet, im ienetrable manner—my onl shield, 

0 even pay ‘

, rs;-

  

~ 2 its

pressing his affection satisfies me, and it ought to satisfy ’

others.

“ And how cautious, how calm, I was with him! ‘I  ,
.never let hiJn see by my manners, or by the sli htest hint'_ 

that I‘thought, or that I even rmitted mysel to dream,
that he might act otherwise.
the first complaint on my side would be the signal too

full well per ived, that p! 

 

   
 

’i‘ '
a . .
" vi

a"
A, \

- a rupiure.

‘ .lution, for there no longer remains any lbpe.

' wish, has promised to write to

‘ _ swer: its object is to keep secret the ste
 take.

i V‘borhood learns that my marriage is broken ofl.

 

' THE BROTHERS‘ BET. ‘

 

 

succession of scenes, which could end in nothing less than

"‘ ow often he would seize my hand, and say, with sin-
cere emotion, ‘Alas, how badly I fulfill my duties! But
-- y-and-b , by-and-by—-—all will be better!’

4‘" Ie h confided to me that he had been secretly en-
gaged, and that he had been assionatcly in love with this
young lady,awho had shared liS feelings, but that during
a journey in the south, Which he had been obliged to make
on account of his health, his beloved had been forced by
her parents to marr a man whom she, of course, detestcd,
because he was not ichard. He received this news while
he was abroad, and he saw her only once again after his
return home; what then took place I know not. He felt
that he must endeavor to suppress the fire which was con-
suming him, and be determined to form new ties. Was it
his fan-t that I did not possess sufficient outward charms,
or manners attractive enough to make him forget the past?
At the very beginning of our engagement, in a moment of
cordiality, he had confided all this to me; since then, he
has pointedly avoided the slightest allusion to his former

. connections.

“ But now let us return to the time when the term for

our mourning was ended. You know that pa a then be-

an to speak of my marriage taking place, and) wished to
now definitely when the bans were to be published.

“ Now it was the future bridegroom who put it off first
by one then the other excuse, now it was the bride, until
at len th people quite gave up speaking of a marriage at
all. ut some decision had to be come to at last; I could
not eternally evade papa’s questions, and your entreaties;
so I proposed to papa to accompany him to the Baths, and
as Richard, according to agreement, was to meet us there,
I determined that these last few weeks should decide our

ate.

“ Can he suspect that I have come to this conclusion?

“Bertha, I told you, at the.bcginiiing of my letter, that
the allotted time was nearly past, and still he has not yet
made his a pearance, and but one single half-distracted
letter have Ii received from him. Where can he be? I
can not imagine. I have met some persons from his neigh-
borhood, the have seen nothing of him; indeed, they
thought that e was at this watering-place.”

. t t I! II It

0

'sneoxn LETTER FROM HILDA 'ro BERTHA, WRITTEN A raw
DAYS LATER. ‘

“At length I have had the courage to take a firm reso-
He knew
that on the twenty-ninth we were to leave t iis place, and
yesterday was the thirtieth.

,“ We set of! to-day without fail—but not home—no, no,
I cannot go home at present.

“Do on remember that we have got an aunt, a good,
kind 0] lady, who resides at Elfhcim, a solitar 8 0t in
the heart of the most wild district of Smaland hcn
we were very young we both have played in aunt’s large

arden. Mama was then alive, and she wished to visit
er sister once more. It was about ten years a o; Iwas
thirteen years of age, you ten years old; and t ie corres-
pondence which on first arting was carried on briskly,‘
fell off radually, until at ength it ceased altogether

“ Sugdenly our kind-hearted aunt, and her lonely dwell-

~‘ing-house, have returned to‘my memory. The idea of

travelin to Elfheim has taken‘firiii possession of me, and
papa, w o in his silent sympathy agrees to every thing I
on, that you might go
With us, or rather meet us there, or papa can only remain
a few days.

“If you ask what is the object of this 'ourne', I an-
am it out to
I do not choose tobe at home when t 6 whole neigh-
Peeple
l .

. \

 

have so long busied themselves about it, that I would
rather escape inquisitive remarks, and their hypocritical
show of interest.

“ As soon as I learn Richard’s present abode I will write
to him. Perhaps he expects to meet us at home; perhaps
he is .there already. If so, breathe not a word to him; I
wish to tell all in self. I do not fear that I shall change
my resolution. he only thing which could excuse his ab-
sence would be illness—but illness need not have prevented
him from sending me one line.

“It would be unworthy of me to distress you by com-
plaints; I have long since learned the difficult art of self-
command, and I shall not waver during this last trial.
Come as soon as you can to your affectionate HILDA.

“ P. S.—I pm you not to put off your departure for the
sake of your toi ct. Aunt lives qluite alone; her sons, our
former admirers and plavfellows, ave now grown up, and
are settled elsewhere. There is not a single person of con-
sequence for miles around.

“ I send you Richard’s last letter. It is the first I have
shown you, but it does not signify now, because you know
all. ’

“DEAR HILDA: Yesterday I wrote you a long letter,
and on each page of that letter I poured forth my soul.
Why did I not send it? Because it would have been cow-
ardice to have betrayed to you so much weakness. You are
so courageous—I admire your strength of mind. But man
does not like to allow himself to be humbled by an exam-«
ple which he can not imitate.

“ So you are still at the Baths? How ood you are to
wait for me! I shall come without fail. . ‘here is some-
thing so brilliant and interesting in a fashionable watering—
place; it is a little world of amusement. Why need I deny
it, for some time past my mind has required to be diverted.

IIappy Hilda, in vour enviable calmness of disposition, you . i 4

need nothing but-the force of your will to find life pleasant
in any form. Ah, forgive me, forgive me! I am endeavor-
ing to blindfold my own eyes.

“Hilda, would you have mercy u n me if I desired it?

“ Why do you never provoke me! Why are you always
as patient as an angel toward me, or show a firmnesswhich
thoroughly masks despair? A few scenes such as other
girls would have had with their lovers, full of complaints,
anger, and irritability—and matters would have been ex-
plained between us.

“I am' not well to-day. There can be nothing more
awful than to plunge a dagger into the heart of a person
who oilérs no resistance. Sophistry—sophistry— wha‘t
poniard is shai er than that of words?

“ Well, I shle come to the Baths—it is so arranged. I
shall start in about a week’s time, but way do not be un- ~
easy if I dela a little longer. Farewell, my friend, come
what may in uture, be assured that you possess my utmost
respect; my warmest sympathy, and my Sincere attachment. 1

' “ RICHARD.

((P.S."“I assure you, Hilda,I deserve our pityfmore '
than your an er, while you are reading this ettcr. only
you knew—i you knew-But I hope, at all events, to
come.”

 

CHAPTER XVI.

BEBH'HA.

WE will now visit the person to whom the above lettezs
were addressed. ' ,
The youthful Bertha was seated in a swing in front of
her father’s country house. She had wound one arm around
the trunk of a young birch, the to of which disappeared
beneath the broad vault of two ancient chestnut-trees, and

her headwas leaning in her other .hand while, tears were ;;
ers,'and 'ti'ick-  '

forcing their way between her slender
ling slowly down. , '

 

 

 

 

?   I, W 7, l l I ‘  “i 1 f ‘ 'i 1 I  “V ) I
i ‘1 x l ‘ i \ ~ I [1 ’fi“.« ,4 fl
, M . A
. II, I I N ' \ ~ ll .
~ . ,y L r I x
. ‘ A , ' v ‘ ' 'L I

l. ~ . THE BROTHERS‘ . BET. . 19
‘ ‘ ‘ a: v s n 3R:

 

 

Some haltopen letters mioht lead one to sugpose that
her emotion had been caused by their contents. as it the
misery at length poured forth in the confidence of her sis-
ter, which thus agitated Bertha? Not likely, for just then
she removed her hand, exposing to view one of the most
lovely little faces it were possible to conceive, remarkable
both for intelligence and‘ grace, and a scornful smile played
' around her rosy lips, as she half muttered:

“ It is high time for the poor girl to return to reason.”
Bertha, who was three years younger than her sister Hilda,
assumed a charming air of maternal anxiety as she thus
expressed herself. “ I he 0,” she added, in a tone of deep
‘ interest and sympathy, “ hope she will remain firm—but
now that she has at last spoken openly to me, I will keep
her up to the mark.” ‘ '

As quick as lightning a cloud obscured the sunshine in
Bertha’s dark eyes; she shook her little head sadly, and
again began to weep.

At that moment the old housekeeper drew near, who,
ever smce the young ladies’ childhood, had been made the
confidante of all their little joys and sorrows.

“Dear me, what is the matter with you, Miss Bertha?”
asked the good-natured woman; “ I cannot bear to see
these tears. No Wonder that it is dull for you here during
my master’s and young mistress’s absence.’

f‘Oh, it is not that, dear Cajsa; I want to tell you some—
thuliiof importance.” -
f “ ercics on us! Has the vicar dared to make love to
‘YOU While the major is away? I read in his eyes, when we
met him on Sunday near the church, that he 10nged to do

‘  so"?

“You have guessed wrong.”
“ Well, then, I know what it is; the assessor’s handsome
.Koung secretary has forgotten, perhaps, to send the last
Etch of books from the library. But be comforted, miss,
they may yet come.” .
‘ Wrong again, Cajsa; I Will not have his books any'l
. Ion er, his attentions are as selfish as those of the vicar;
‘an , besides, now I can have as 'many books as I please
9f my own,” said Bertha, assumlng an air of pride and
Importance; then suddenly falling into her natural tone
311 manners, she cried, “Look at that poor man who is
Cqming towards the gate.” .
.“Dear young lady, it is doubtless a prisoner who has
“Scaped.” I .

“ "‘ Cajsa, do you want to make me angry?” she said,

Jumping down from the swing and stam )mg her little foot

upon the gravel. “Go immediately .an_ open the grated
ate. Do you not see that he is Sinking from fatigue?
10W creature. I will run myself.” ‘

'At that moment a carriage rolled up the alley, but Ber-
?ha scarcely glanced at it until she had Conducted the old
{Valid—for such he was—into the kitchen, and had seen
him well attended to. .

“I wish I might be allowed to mind my own business,”

mbled Cajsa——“and you, miés, would mindyours; the
adies in the carriage yonder would not, be tw1stmg their
necks almost off to look after you.”

“ Hush, you, old witch, I’m gone—but now.
I hear my secret. Have you ever seen a white 81
'with flowers?”

“Never to my knowledge!” .

“Nor I either—but you may 10d; forward to haying that
ffiamro.” Charmed at Cajsa’s astonishment, the ay-
 Bertha hastened away, and reached the hall- oor
.mfifin time to welcome a carriage full of neighbors, who
“mined to see how their 1011er little friend was gettingon.
3‘“ gertha knew what value to put upon their professions
of! Iriendshi . I ‘

, .Ei'e‘ry Sunday after church she had been overwhelmed

_' ~m§h\35n thizm inquiries respecting her sister’s journey,
 v “(1% ,  w ether Hilds’s intended had arrived at
” . the‘ 3 h“Htlld if the “'Oddmg’day had been fixed. Bertha
, ' therefore Mind her inGVItable doom during this visit,

on won’t
bonnet

 

apart, I am

 

for, as a hostess, she had not the same means of escape, as
in the church-yard. - '

Happily she was enabled to anticipate their queries by a

volley of unexpected and voluntary communications, such ‘

as, “pa a had written what a. sensation Hilda had made;”
she real y was one of the belles at the Baths, and Hilda
herself had written how greatly she had been amusing her-
self—she had become quite another person, and both had
written that the whole family were to meet at an aunt’sin
Smaland, for which place Bertha was also to start by the _
first coach.

This was her principal theme, branching of! into noend ‘

of variations, and the young girls who were paying'the
visit could not understand why Bertha had taken‘ such a
sudden longing for a silk bonnet trimmed with roses;
could she, who never wore any thing but a straw hat plait-

ed at home, or at best, one bought in the village, could shop _

he contemplating such an extravagance.

But Bertha wept and laughed, and embraced her dear,
kind friends, and said that her head and heart were full of
a great secret, of which, however, she could not speak,
until she had returned home. Upon reflection, though,
she did not think she would tax her friends’ patience so
lon ; apa might relate the matter when he came back.

1 a1 -wi1d from curiosity, the guests were forced to take
their departure.

No sooner had Bertha, bowing at the last gate, kissed a
playful farewell from the tips of her pretty fingers, than
she returned toward the house with a scornful expression
in her little face.

“ There now, my amiable friends, you have enough to

live u on for a week or two.”

(6

ill it be enough for me, too?” asked old Cajsa, who,

full of curiosity, came forward to meet her young mistress.

“ Oh, no, the character of confidante shall be consigned
to you. Tell me, is not ten thousand rix-dollars immense

wealth?”

I“It certainly is a terribly large sum,” replied Cajss,
With increasing astonishment.
“ Well, if you think ten thousand dollars a large for-

tune, what do you sa to twenty thousand?” 

“ Twenty thousan —heaven preserve us!”

~“ Why not—it might even be thirty thousand.”

' “ I am not capable of calculating so much wealth.”

“ Look well at me, Cajsa.”

“ Ah, it is not necessary for me to do so, in order to
know how you look—lovel as the flowers of the field, gay
as the birds of the air, an sweet and affectionate as the
most gentle white dove.”

Bertha laughed aloud. \

“ Only fancy, if a lover had made'me this speech!”

“ I verily believe the vicar would willingly do so.”

“ Nonsense.”

“ Or the secretary,” continued Cajsa.

“Hush; I ask you, are those men lovers for me? The
one old and tiresome, the other selfish and conceited.
They have neither of them any chance. I can assure you,
dear Cajsa, with thirty thousand rix-dollars one might get
an admirer without much trouble.”

“ Yes, miss; if you had that vast fortune 4 on would

not have long to wait for a sweetheart; both has and, Wbd- ‘ ‘

dmg, and dance would be close at hand.” I
“No husband and wedding for me, Ithsnk you—tho
dance is all very well, but not with my own husband; I,
have seen enough of marriage preparations to' be eager to

follow that example.” -
“ Assuredly that was no examer for you to follow, miss,
for nothing has come of Miss I ilda’s wedding."

“Nor will anything ever come it. But now, jesting

dollars.” ,
_“ pid, you dream that you had won that sum in alottory, .
miss!” .\- '
i l
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perfectly in earnest about thirty thousand 1'in~ ‘ ‘

 

 
   

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stairs to the garret, and consi

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“ No; but I have received a letter. Ali, dear old Cajsa,
I am not as frivolous as I appear. I have some feeling.”
Again the sunny cxpressmn vanished, and a strange
earnestness came over the young girl's countenance.
“Gracious heavens, do hot shed those ugly tears! Tell
me what is the grief that oppresscs you?”
“Do cu remember, Cajsa, that l was always the favor-
ite of o (1 Mrs. Rillstedt, who used formerly to reside at
Rolanda?”

“ Yes,” replied the worthy woman, “ I recollect perfectly
that you often went to stay with her, and that the old lady
was never so happy as when 'ou were singing to her.”

‘.‘ I was very end of her; but when she went to live with
-her son-in-law we never heard any more from her, although
I regularly wrote her every new year to wish her many
happly returns of the season.”

" Iy dear young lady, do 'iiialte haste and come to the
pointl’

"‘ Have patience, will on! I must have breathing time.
I mentioned to you hat I received some letters this
morning.”

“ From the major and Miss IIilda, I suppose? But

i sure] what you told your guests just now was not true?”

“ f course it was.”

“What! that you are going to join the others at
Smaland? Well, I am perfectly mystified—my brain
seems quite muddled.”

“You might be silent,I think, until I have finished
speaking. 'lhe fact of the matter is this, that my dear
friend has just written to me, that—but this is the most

sorrowful part of it—she feels that her last hour is ap-

proaching, excellent old lady, and, as no one in the world
ias been so attentive and considerate toward her as I have
been, she has altered her will—her son-in-law’s disgraceful
ceiiduct toward her also determined her to take fiiis step
——and, heavens! oh, heavens! would you believe it? she
has named me her heir!”

“ The Lord bless the noble soul!” exclaimed Cajsa, be-
ginning to cry. ,
, “After they had both remained silent awhile, Bertha
‘said uickly, and with her usual rapid transition of voice:

“ ow, go back to your pets and pans, dear Cajsa. I
wish to be alone with my thoughts. I start on my journey
to-morrow afternoon.” !

i O t t * I

An hour later Bertha stood gazing at a icturc that hung
over Hilda’s bed, in the small chamber wliich she and her
sister had shared for so many years. It was a portrait of
Hilda’s intended. Tears still him like pearls oii Bertha’s

életter full of gratitude
and affection to her ancient friend, whom she could no
longer hope to see again in this world.

“Doubtless I have not told her all I would have said,
but she shall hear it when we meet in heaven. How happy
we can all be nowl—but shall we be so?” She cast an al-
most threatening look at the portrait of the young man,
upon whose pale, lofty brow an expression of deep sadness
might be traced," notwithstanding the somewhat forced
smile upon his lips.

“This precious thing," she continued, snatching the
aintin from the wall with no very gentle hand, “ shall
6 fort iwith thrown into the lumber-room. May you

never regain your place! you absurd slave to old fancies!
you ungrateful creature, not to appreciate one who is too
good for you!”

Without farther ceremony she carried the portrait up
ed it to an old box, a sort
of repository for forgotten rub ish. ,

“ Sleep soundly, major, sleep until the day 0 fjudgment,
or, at any rate, until the day you regain your rst bride;
should that event ever take place, I Will disentomb you,
and transform you into awedding-gift to the fair ladv.
But I must now run and look over my wardrobe—itis really

y
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ran mommies BET. -

 

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‘

a pity that both In cousins are away, or, perhaps, they:
ousan \

might both have fa ion in love with my thirty ti
rix-dollars.”

\

 

CHAPTER XVII.

THE COL'SINS.

Tin: pages allotted to a short tale will not permit of long -

and minute descriptions. We can not, therefore, linger
over the separate arrivals of the youn ladies, much less
the manner in which their res ected fat ier presented him-
self; no, not even the remar able sensation which Miss
Bertha’s thirty thousand rix-dollars, and accompanying silk
bonnet, excited.

We must confine ourselves to the assurance that the
major—the father—bade adieu to his kind and amiable
relations with sincere regret; that the latter, on the con-
trary, saw the old man depart with secret joy, for, agreea-

ble and good-tempered though he was, 'et it was far more ‘

pleasant for the brothers to evote to t ieir pretty cousins
all the time which they could spare from their vis‘its to the
youthful widow. ' And as to Mrs. Wallcnhcrg, she soon
discovered that the major had a bad habit of givin his ad-
vice on matters in which she considered it the fight of
presumption to venture to question her own superior
'IIOWICL go.

We will take it for granted, then, that a week has passed.
It is the day after the inajor’s departure; the party were
sitting at breakfast. Mrs. Wallenberg presiding at one end
of the table, with the coffee-pot on her right, and a gigan-
tic jug of thick cream on her left.

A large antique vase, with nearly a hedge full of white
and red roses, veiled from her view the sweet girls who were
immediatel opposite to her. But the eyes of the two
young gent eincii, seated on either side of the costly centre
ornament, were not blind to all the beauty which was pres— ‘
cut at table, and each was busily engaged playing the ami-
able to his next neighbor. _ i a

The most lovely objects in this sunny room, were, of
course, the two sisters. They stron ly resembled each
other—and yet they were perfectly un ike. Their beauti-
ful chestnut—brown hair, their hyacinthine blue eyes, beam-

ing with the pureness of their hearts, their fresh lips, -

their fine oval countenances, and their slender, yet full
figures, were as if moulded from the same form. But
their air, their smile, their lance, and, above all, their
manners, betrayed no family likeness.

IIilda, who was two-an -twenty years of age, and had
already penetrated into the realities of life, and had be-
come familiar with one of its gloomy phases, exhibited in
her dcportment that calmness and that constant serious-
ness, which no more indicates a morbid state of feelings!
than it does joyous, childish gaiety. This calm earnest-
ness, when visible in so young a woman, is the surest proof
of a mind well-versed in the art of self-command, and as
sure a proof that this mind will succeed in recovering its
equipOise. _

Bertha, on the contrary, had just entered the threshold
of life, and what she had gathered from the experience of
others, had inspired her with a wish, for the presentat
least, of remaining what she was. We have already de-
scribed how her imprcsSions chased each other as fleetly as
the Wind, and yet nothing heartless or selfish could be de‘
tected in her. Ali, no, it was merely the vivacity of her
lively mind which caused this apparent tendency to 08'
price. Had she been plunged into distressing circum'
stances, without losing her cheerfulness, she would have
proved herself as courageous as Hilda, though very prob‘ ’
abl‘y, she would not have shown herself as placid. '

e must mention that the brothers fully agreed  -,

two points. One was that they would not breathea syllale
to their retty cousins respecting their designs upon  ,-

young Widow, the other was that the rector, neither}! _.

 

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l word nor by hint, should .allude to Victor’s pretended en-

gagement to Bertha. If the rector had not promised to
comply With this latter arrangement, the young lawyer
declared he would disclose his flirtation with acertain
pretty waiting-maid, and rather than permit such a slur
upon his dignity, Edwin consented to seal his lips. Hav-
mg come to this understanding, the brothers each went
his own way. Edwin devoted 1himself; to his school-boy
flame, while Victor, whether he were standing, sitting, or
walking, paid Bertha his undivided attention.

II # t t t t *

“My dear Hilda,” the rector repeated for the second
time, “you do not even deign to see that I have been offer-
mg you the biscuit-basket ever so long.”

“ Pardon me, Edwin.”

She appeared this morning unusually absent, nor was it
who wondered at, for she expected that day’s post would
bring her a letter which had either been addressed to the
Baths, or to her usual place of residence, bllt WhiCll Elle
had directed should be forwarded to her at her aunt’s.

The three words, “ Pardon me, Edwin,” were said in a
sweet, apologizing tone; she took a biscuit, and rewarded
her indefatigable cavalier with a smile. -

“ It does not seem,” whispered Victor, as he bent down
to the red little ear of his neighbor, “ as if any thing
would come of the matter which I mentioned to you yes-
terd'a , my dear cousin.” .

‘50 you flatter yourself that I remember ever thing

you say to me, and am able to understand your a1 usions

,witliout assistance from one day to the other; you are
greatl mistaken, I can tell you.’

“I ow different it is with me,” replied V ietor; “I can
Perfectly recollect every word that you SPOkc Yesterday, the
day before esterday, and even the day before that again.”

“ Well, 1y declare, that is far greater attention thilin any

f ou
can prove to me the truth of what you advance, I willDen-
deavor to recollect a portion of your conversation yesterday.
Now, come, what did I say three days ago?”

“ ‘Victor,’ you said, ‘ do you think that a white silk
bonnet, with roses, would be becoming to me I” and I an-
swered—”

girl,

“ Your answer is of no consequence!” cried the
laughing; “ now we come to the day before *esterday. _

“The day before yesterday you asked, ‘ 0 you think,
cousin, that a mantle of violet-colored velvet, With a light
lining, would give me a more dignified appearance than I
at present liave?’ and I ans—” 4 _ _

v; “ Well, and yesterday F” she exclaimed, interrupting
1.11131 a second time. _
‘ ‘ ll. yesterday, you called me to you, here. and 541d,
, My dear Victor, W)“ there not be a chance of your falling
"1 love With me when I have got my wardrobe in order ? if
3’0.“ do not: I can not imagine who I shall have to ad-
mire my pretty things.’ ”

“ Enough: enough, now it is my turn—let me sec—this
inuch I thoroughly remember, you said more insipid things
yesterday ‘51“? 3’01} did the day before yesterday.”

“ Oh, cousin mine_”

“‘Now, my Worthy cousin, I be
way to dangerous 8_elf~delusion8.
0f ‘39ntinlmulr 1‘” mg Compliments, and compliments, let
"‘9 t9.“ you, 8110" d b? Clever, otherwise they become—”

I “ Dear children: W1“ 5011 not have some sour milk F”

“Y”; dear aunt, W0 Will take anything you please.”

“ On two are merely talkiug,” replied the good lady .Of
muCh too valuable to waste at
th“ brei‘i‘kfast-tahle after She held helped all who were pres-
911113533; 926 pushed the 8011r milk ‘over to Victor and Ber-
t fl 32 ‘
 Dear hunt, I certainly have the intention of hel in
If “:39” milk-'but Vlcmr takes so much nonsense ii

0 you are not_giving
. on have a horrid habit

I

 

 

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A

“ Then you must finish your breakfast alone,‘ my dears,”
said the hostess, pushing back her chair. Hilda did the
same, and the rector, in his love of order, followed their ex-
ample. ~ . I

“ N o, no, In dears, it was not m wish to disturb
cried Mrs. W». lenberg, apologizin y.

“I have quite done, thank you, ’ said Hilda. V

“ So have I, dear mother,” added the rector, whose turn
it was to-day to visit the still unconquered Mathilde.

“ And we, what shall we do ?” asked Bertha, with a
most enchanting smile.

“ We sure] y must not go away hungry from table,” an-
swered Victor.

“ Then let us remain, upon the proviso, however, that we .
do not chatter, but really eat.”

Mrs. Wallenbcrg had already vanished, and was now ac-
tively engaged with her household matters. Hilda had
seated herself upon a small wooden bench in the entrance-
liall, and kept watching the house-door. Edwin at that
moment came out with his cap in his hand, and a cigar in
his mouth.

“ Do you intend to take a walk, dear Hilda ?”

“ No, I find it more agreeable to remain in the shade;
do not let me detain you if you are going out." .

“I’m in-no hurry, he said, taking a seat near her.

For some minutes they were both silent; at length he
said:

“ How vcr much changed people find each other after a
separation o eight years I’ And the sympathizing, one
might almost say affectionate look the young man fixed
upon his cousin, occasioned a slight blush to mantle her
cheeks. ‘

“ True, one can scarcely recognize each other ; it is what
might be expected, however, for one can hardly recognize
ene’s self after so long a lapse of time.” 7

“ I do not quite agree with you there ; I see you still as
I saw you at fourteen years of age, on] grown more beau-
tiful and more improved than I cou d have imagined it
possible to have become. But the ay, unreserved irl,-
who confided her little secrets to her friend and playfel ow,
has turned into 3. pr ud, experienced and dignified woman,
who scorns sympathy as something beneath er.” ‘

At this speech Hilda’ cheeks glowed still more brightly.

“I presume, cousin,” she answered, “ you are alluding
to certain circumstances whicli-,” *

“Oh, no, do not imagin such a thing for a moment;
the mere thought that you could consider my words want-

, u

.ing in delicacy, would pain me greatly.”

“No, Edwm, I understand you better than that. We
were very fond of each other at that happy age when we
told each other everything ; now I am convinced that not
even on would care to make me your confidante.”

“ at as long as you retain your severe look, certainly,”
answered the rector, gayly.

“  was not aware that my countenance betrayed so much
severity. But, cousin, if on will not confer ycur confi-
dence upon me until my fbace resumes the expression you
remember eight years ago, very probably we shall never
again exchange our secrets.”

There was something in this answer which wounded
Edwin ten times more than all the taunts with which the
youn widow was wont to torment him. He had neither
been impudent nor obtruding; he had spoken feelingly
and with frank confidence to the friend of his youth, a
near relative, and her answer had been far more cold than
it need have been, and not a word was added to soften the
impression. _

“ I fear I am wearying you with my society: Good-b e,
dear Hilda, I have something to do in the neighborh .” .

“Adieu, Cousin Edwin.” ' -

Not a syllable more was exchanged.

l QI t . ‘ O ' .-

In the room where the other [two were still dawdling ov‘c

 

   

 

 

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I  .  sumac

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' ' their sour milk, the conversation was being carried on in a

most animated strain. ,

“Ah, well,” said Victor, “now we have had enough of
Have the goodness, Miss Bertha, first to repeat
what. said esterday, then we may come back to my re-
mark about dwin and Hilda.”

“Ha, by-the—by, now I remember, you said to me, in

, that conceited air which is so unbecoming to you, ‘Bertha,

would you believe, there is not a man twenty miles around,
who can be compared with me as a swimmer.’ Whereupon

/ I declared that it was extremely unfair of on to boast of

an accomplishment which I never could
tunity of confuting.”

“It is too bad to be treated in this fashion; my only
consolation is, my pretty cousin, that you take advantage
of our relationship.”

“A nice idea, indeed; my gentleman, forsooth, fancies
that a cousin of nineteen years of age is going to allow
herself to be imposed upon as easily as a cousin of eleven

earsold. I thoroughly recollect a certain rough school-

y taking pleasure in inching me in the arm, if I did
not do exact! as he wis ed.”

“ What in amous calumn l” .

“Not at all—he used aso to call me an ill-natured
wretch; and once—oh, that was ver cruel—it pleased this
said school-boy, in an outburst o passion, to break my
most beautiful doll, and to throw it into a pond.”

“But afterwards he fished it up again, and made it a
present of his own watch-chain of bright pinchbeck, as an
ornament for the neck. Of course that, however, is no,

ave an oppor-

longer remembered.”

“Oh yes, it is, and for the sake of that s lendid neck-
lace, I will tax my memor still further—I trink our con-
versation esterday referre to two names on a birch-tree.”

“ Yes, wo names which are still preserved with wonder-
ful freshness! But what signify such omens? Those who

' bear the names appear totally to have forgotten the sweet

dawn of their first love.” .

“Hush—in Heaven’s name never speak of love; only
look how serious Hilda has become!”

“That is the consequence of the engagement—”

"As the engagement is a conse uence of love,’ said
Bertha, interru ting him. “ If were not engaged
against my will, never would be so.”

“Who knows!” cried Victor, laughing; “such things

5

~ have been heard 0 .”

“ Yes, in those days when fathers treated their children

like mere goods of barter; but they are happily long since

past. My dearest father would now have to consult me on
the sub' , and Iwould say—~”

“ We 1, what would you say?” ‘

“Decidedly; no—you may rest assured of that, cousin,
in case it should ever enter your brain to woo my thirty
thousand rix-dollars.”

“ Pshaw!” ‘

“ Pray why do you say ‘Pshaw!’ Is not thirty thousand
rix-dollars a tempting sum?”

“ There is not a doubt of it, but—”

“ Oh spare me your but! As seen as I have my fortune
in my own hands, I shall establish myself as a young

. widow. One of these days I will confide to you the whole
~ of my charming plan; I cannot stop at resent, for I must

run up stairs and try and finish my wor .”

An before Victor could make an attempt to restrain her,
she had disappeared.

“There can be no doubt,” muttered Victor to himself,
as his eyes followed the young heiress with an expression of
deep thought, “there can be no doubt that this little Ber-

tha is a most fascinating creature; It was a great error on

your parts, young ladies, that you did not come a few
weeks sooner. '

' “ Now, unfortunately, my honor is engaged in the other‘

conquest: in eiglht days she must ca )itu ate, or else—the
am turned into ri 'cule, and thatt these

' \.

 

girls should know it; yet that is not possible; I set'too~
small a value upon m abilities. I shall make way to-mor-
row, without fail. ang it, that you, too, my mystical
bride, must needs be so charming!’

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LAST CORRESPONDENCE.

AN hour later, Hilda‘entered her sister’s chamber pale
as a lil , but like it, with head erect. '

“ A 1 is at an end,” she said; “this letter has been sent
on from A : Read it!”

 

She gave Bertha an open letter, and if it had not been
for the trembling of her hand and voice, Bertha would not '

have been able to perceive that Hilda’s heart was wrung
with emotion.

“I shall leave you for a short while,
write an answer by return of post.”

“And where is he then, in heaven’s name?” exclaimed
Bertha.

“ I- do not know, nor need I care to know in future.
My letter was enclosed in a note for his sister, and I will
send my answer through her.” l:

“ Alas! dearest IIilc a!” cried Bertha, casting her; arms
around her elder sister.

They formed a touching group. With tears in her lon
silken eyelashes, Bertha pressed her ros cheek tenderly an
lovin 1y against IIilda’s, which was co (1 and snowy.

“' hanks, sweet girl,” she said, softly, “but .let me go
now, I shall learn to endure this grief.’

s: a: as an a: as an:

“ Now, then,” said Bertha, when she was alone, “let us

’1

she said, “ to

see what the major has to say; I feel the tiniest might of' .

consolation in the midst of my sorrow, when I think that
I have stowed awa his portrait among the rubbish in the
garret. Ah, men. horrid, abominable men!” she added,
with increasing feeling. “To be sure, there are exceptions
who are agreeable enough, though their amiability lasts
merely until one is engaged to them.” ‘ :

She placed herself far back into the sofa corner, and be-
gan to read: -

“ Esrrzsnsn 111mm :” “ This, surely,” exclaimed Ber-
tha, breaking off, “ must ave been written from a mad,-
house; the man actually addresses his bride exactly as he

would some old aunt, to whom he was sending his best ‘

wishes for the new year.” She continued:

9“ After long reflection I can .find no more suitable ad—
dress, or one which corresponds better t6 our mutual posi-
tions. A proud man humbling himself before the woman
who alone has the right to scorn his weakness, to judge and
treat it with merited severity, or with amiable clemency.

“ Hilda, high-minded, noble Hilda, a succession of
months, whiehthavc been more rich in neglected duties than
in duties performed, have long since proved to on that my
heart * * * what shall I say to you? The truth is
so harsh—I can only utter it in groans, and Yet
if this truth were not a firm, unalterable truth, where

would be my excuse? Alas! I must gain this cruel courage v

for the sake of our mutual welfare. .

“ Hilda! I have never loved more than one woman, and
I can never love another but her. '

“ Listen to the reason! why, under such circumstances, I
sought to form a new tie. after the first, as I have long
since related to you, was cruelly torn asunder. ~

“ About two years had slowly passed after my hopes of
happiness had been dashed. I happened to be at the same

baths which you are at present visiting; I had gone there 

without an object; two years’ suffering could not cure
sorrow suc as mine. Still in this very sorrow was mixed
a shade of joy. and it was that, perhaps, which sustained
the when despair would well-nigh have overwhelmed me.
“I had received from my mother an ancient family relic;
she put it into my hands with the following words:

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. which had bound her to another.

/ her.

c coarsely.

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‘Riehard, give this to the woman, you one day may love.
and let her swear to you, should her feeliii 3 toward you
ever diminish, to send it back to you. has it will be
a talisman, which, as lcn as it is not in your bands, will
cheer our heart under al circumstances!’

“T is sacred gift from a pious mother I had given to
her, whose name I will not tell you, for you could not love
her. And she had not only sworn to carry out the obliga-
tion attached to the present, but she had also received from
me a vow as bindin , namely, should m feeliii s over
grow cold, or should 8 e no longer retain t 10 first p ace in

. my heart, I m self would demand back the relic.

“- Well, she ad been married two years, and the talis-
man had neither been returned, nor asked back. Chance
brought us to ether in one of those unfortunate meeting-
places, which do believe are invented more to injure the

ealtli of the halo, than to make the sick convalescent.

“ To describe this our first meetin since that fatal day

_ h, my God 1 a meet-
ing amid a numerous company of stran ers—forgive me,
forgive me, I can not speak of it—but t ore is one scene
which Imust not pass over. The old story led to the same
termination here as it always does: passmn, struggles, and
lastly a meeting.

“ The man to whom she was tied never could forgive her
because she did not share his vulgar, loathsome tender-
ness. But he also suffered in his way—therefore I will not
judge him, although he made her wretched to a de ree
which would have been reprehensible in any man. 'lhey
had both been unhappy since this marriage.

“It was an evenin in the first days of August. The
moon was playing wit 1 its soft, lovely light 11 on a graSs
plat in her garden. We had just met there. second of

.intoxicating bliss and infinite agony was past. Scarcely a

" word or a press of the hand had been exchanged, when the
husband rushed forward like a madman, and threatened
her—the woman whom we both loved—with public dis-
grace. An infuriated ti or is less terrible than a man ex-
Clted by jealousy. My b ood also began to borl. But the
angel stepped between us. _

“ ‘ I swear,’ she said, ‘ that it is the .first time I have
seen Richard alone; and I solemnly romise that, through-
out my married life, it shall be tie last. Do not blast
my character—4t would kill mv mother.’ .

“She adored her mother, who had sacrificed her child,
and who died but two months after this scene. Her voice
was so beseechin and captivating as she entreated him,
that her husban , whose car had never before been charmed
by such tones, instantly checked his Wild fel‘OCIty.

“ ‘If,’ he said, ‘this voung man, our former lover,
romises the same on his honor, I will ave atience, and
a silent ; but if he would that I should real y pardon my

Wife, and treat her kindlv, whom otherwise I must always
look upon with distrust, he will show that the tie between
You can be still more securely severed.’ .

“‘How—what do you mean?’ I asked, trembling for

“ ‘ There are other women in the world,’ h? answered
‘If you have loved this one, prove it; to en-
sure har future peace, marry another.’ _

, “ ism“ rephed, ‘since it is your wife’s own chorce to
remam “nth you, do not let her suffer for having preferred
the path of honor. I will purchase her happiness at the

- expense of my own.’

6 ‘ 
.Hilda l

‘_‘It was an unlucky fate which cast you in my Way 0“
{my return from that unhappy journe . If we had married
‘mimediately, very possibly neither 0 us would have been
nWomble. Your tenderness would have done much to
have attached me to you. But I ained time for reflection
--the weddmg was put off, until—it would be an iniquitous
act toward us both to let it take place, without every cir-

you understand all now, Hilda ?——dear, dear

1, V fumlifincfibeiug first clearly explained to you.

THE BROTHERS‘ BIT. "

 

“ How long has not this painful confession wei hed
down my heart ? It was so difficult for me to speak, or I
feared your feelings might be too deeply wounded. Now,
however, I have said all. It is for
the marriage shall go on, or whether it shall be broken ofi
~——whichever of the two takes place, it must be done speedis
ly. But, listen to me—these words come from the inmost
soul of an honest man If, after this confession, you still
venture to join your fate to mine, I solemnly assure you
that you shall find in me a husband who will endeavor to
make himself worthy of you. Farewell, sweet an el 1 who
has so greatly deserved happiness—farewell, an forgive
me, who will always look upon you as the most noble and
amiable of women. RICHARD.”

In connection with 1tins letter, and without any com-
mentary, we also give ilda’s answer.

“ RICiiARD!—I have never et told you an anti-nth; you

must not, therefore, do me the injustice to doubt what I
am about to write you. A doubt were, however, unworthy
of us both; you Will therefore believe me, notwitnstandin
'our vanity may prompt you to think otherwise. Had
'llOWll where to address a letter to you, you never would
have been obliged to have written yours to me. I had iro
revocablv determined that the events which mi ht occur
durinor this journey to the Baths, should be your ast trial.
As it iappened, there were no events to judge from. Your
absence confirmed my preconceived opinions, and it did
not even require your first letter, which was ,so full of in-
deeisions, weakness, agitation, and inconstanc , to induce
me to carry them out. You are aware that have had a
long time to reflect, and come to some determination.
You must be assured, therefore, when once my resolution
is taken, it will remain unchanged. * .

“ You will find your ring enclosed in this letter; I re-
quest that mine may be returned to me.

“I do not wish to reproach you. You found an easy
victim to your thoughtless promise, and if my sufferin
during this last year have urchased peace for her who is
all in all to you, they have en of some benefit—which is
seldom the reward of ain endured. ‘

“ You need not ma '0 yourself uneas about my future
fate. Indeed, I even thank you for elaying so long to
make your confession to me. What dawns upon one grad-
ually, is easier to near than what comes upon one unexpect-
edly, while one is still under the influence of self-decer
tion.

“ I assure you—and I request that you will believe what
I saly-T—that I do not feel unhappy at present; and lean
exp ain why, because when l contemplate the future which

g

Englht have been a burden to us both, I can only thank"
0

that we have stopped at the point where we stand I
further thank God for having given me a patient spirit, a
calm character, and for havin granted me strength to
overcome theweakness of my cart. I shall never give
myself up to hcpeless despair.

“ But you, ichard, what will become of you? Will
freedom confer happiness u 11 you again? Ican only pray
for you anddier; pray also or me. ‘ ‘

“ HILDA.
“ P. S.-—I do not wish you to answer me.”

 

CHAPTER XIX.

A CONFESSION—ANXIETY—A GLANCE AT THE SECR
SPRINGS. i

Arrsn having devoted so much time to the other char-
acters in our little drama, we will‘now return to our prin-
cxpal heroine.

We find her in the same room, and in the same position
as we saw her when first we visited the peaceful retreat,
where she evidently wished to was the last months of th
period that widows are genera y expected to mourn. ‘

i‘ TO-day. tOO, she seemed to be overwhelmed with anxiety «I i l I

you to decide whether .

\

 

    
 

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‘ ', - ; . I ’- 0 r '
, rm: alternates aim  I, o
‘ f . ‘3' r -r in r. A w‘""‘”“' 7"“"” ""'*""“'r‘r"*-—-" 
 and sorrow; ‘now also she held the golden heart in her _ “ To be sure I am; of whom else should I be speaking, '
hand, and as before she opened it, and passwnately pressed in heaven’s name?” ‘ i

’E..
”'

.~'
.

 

L\

, f Ma’amselle Sophie 2&2

‘ will neyer esert.ycu——wl‘

 

 

the fair lock of hair to her lips. To finish the picture,
cared also on this occasion at the
‘door, and interrupts icr mistress.

The only difference was that now So )hie cast an extreme-
ly) sus icious glance at the “relic.” re, who wished to be
t oug t very clever, had long since come to the conclusion,

5thatasthe hair of the departed husband was decidedly

coal-black, it was Iperfectly ridiculous to suppose that when
shut up in he go den heart it could become lighter—as
golden, indeed, as the heart itself.

’If Ma’amselle Sophie Tolander and the oung rector
had been on the same friendly terms as ormerly, she
would doubtless have communicated her discoveries to
him; but after he had gained access to the lady herself,
he had had the folly—if not to say the ingratitude—of al-
most entirely forgetting that there had been a time when
heland the waiting-maid had been on terms of some in-

. timacy.

As the door opened, Mathilde hastened to hide her
treasure, and she looked any thing but pleased, as she
turned round, exclaiming:

“I can not conceive waat is the matter now—you have

‘ - only 'ust left me!”

“ h, dear madame,” said Ma’amselle Sophie, .putting
on an air of humility and repentance, “ I can not keep it
to myself any longer. I do not wish to offend you, ma-
dame, no, not for the whole world; and yet, through my
innocence and ignorance of the ways of bad eople, I have
been the victim of a base, hypocritical, worth ess man.”

“ Poor, r Sophie, however unhappy you may be, I
has deceived you, poor girl?”

“Heaven reserve me. How could you Conceive such
an idea, m ame?” cried Sophie, making a low courtesy.
“I am not the person who has been deceived.”

“What do you mean, then? You said you were the
victim of a——”

“.Mean action, dear lady; an extremely mean action. A

gentleman of whom you think well, madame, and whom‘

you have perhaps permitted to build hopes for the future,
this gentleman has—has—I will speak it out at once—has
induced me to spy upon .you here, in this house. And for
'this despicable sin, into which he has led me, an innocent,
simple-minded creature, he ought neither to be pardoned

' f here on earth, nor yet in heaven.”

While So hie was making this confession, the young
widow had me quite pare, and was evidently laboring
under some fear, so eat, that she could not bring her lips

-_ to form asingle sylla le. ~

“M

'60 on me, how agitated you are, dear lady; be not
angry wi

me. ’If I had not thought that he meant to act

x " honorably with on, I can assure (you I would not have al-

lowed myself to ave been persua ed. But now, since he
has deceived on as well as me, he may have his-dear Miss

,'  Hilda, and I now, madame, that you—”

An exclamation of unutterable a any escaped Mathilde’s
lips, and before Sophie could reac her mistress’s chair,
[she had'fainted away.

Half anhctlr had passed; Sophie lay weeping at the feet
of her mistress.

V , f‘May God forgive youl—wretched girl! Is there any
truth in what you said?——No, you must have accused your-

‘-2 ' self falsely—and above all accused—Repeat again the name

\."

»

you mentioned.”
“ He called her Hilda when they were driving together,
.and she, is a lady—although I do not remember her sur-

Tname.” .

    

tmel Has any one per

v.

“ Were they driving together?—-Girl. you are mocking
' 1you for this base conduct?”

‘fflever, my dearest ady! I said to the rector from the

very first, ‘ Do not fancy, sir, that I can be bought by
.‘ mono - ”
' “ he meter—the récto'rl” Mathilde started up eagerly.

Iii  hawking 0‘ the “CWT, Ml‘. Wallenberg?”

 

 

“ Did he'persuade you to spy upon me?” asked Mathilda; ‘

gravel . _

“ es, at first—but not latterly. I declare to you, not
latterly.” ‘ -

“ And you were capable of doing it? What did on have
to tell him? I desire you to speak the truth!” here Was
an air of command and imposin dignity min led with
Mathilde’s deep distress, which h’a’amselle So iie could
not withstand; she, therefore, related all that ad taken
place from the beginning to the end.

“ And,” continued her mistress, in a voice of suspense,
“ who is this Miss Hilda?”

 

“She is his cousin; she and her sister are staying with '

their aunt, Mrs. Wallenberg. Neither of the gent emen
have said a word here about their visit; but yesterday I met
the rector driving with the young lady, and it was very
easy to see what he was after.” '

“Have you any thing more to communicate to me?”
“ Nothing more,”answered Sophie, with innocent frank-
ness. . »

“ Then go, and leave me alone to myself.”

“Alas! will you never forgive me, madame?”

“ I shall try to do so—but we must part.”

“ That we should do at any rate,” replied Sophie, partly. ‘ ,
“But,” she added, “it is nearly time for the motor to ,

come.”

“ I am aware of it, and that is just the reason why I
wish to be alone at present. I will ring in half an hour.”

“ When the door was fairly closed, the last trace of self-
command disappeared from the beautiful countenance of
her mistress. She wrung her white hands; but then,
quick as lightnin , a ray of joy flashed through the mist
of despair, callc forth, doubtless, by a happy thought,
an idea, a hope—only instantly to be replaced again by
'anxiet , fear, and restless timidity.

“\ he could have imagined it?--how mean!” she ex-
claimed. “ Still what a blessing that the worst was mere-
ly a doubt—no, it was not even a doubt, else, instead of,
fainting, I should have died on the spot; but,” she added,

with returning composure, “ I must look and see on what

da he writes. Where has the letter one to?”

She hastened to the chiffoniere, an took from a secret ‘
drawer a small book, which was filled with memoranda,
through which she began eagerly to lance. ' .

“ ‘ uly the —. Rather diverted y the absurd visit of
two brothers.’ Ah, I wish I had kept to my first resolu-
tion not to receive them—but who knows what a couple of
idle flellows as they are, might not have ventured to have
done

“ ‘July —-. Letters from both the brothers. An offer
from the rector. Conceited blockhead! Mr. Victor Wal-
lenberg’s engagement—not so badly devisedl’--Ahl what
is this! IIis journey to the town to fetch the letter.” She
smiled through the tears which still glistened in her eyes.
“ The letter—yes, that precious letterl—it was ‘a mercy
that he had suflicicnt delicac not to deliver it himself!

“ Three days later. Oh need not readit over. Never
shall I forget my agitation when I returned home. It was ‘
this which Sophie betrayed; if she had known more she
would have betrayed more. My God, my God, how dearly
I have aid for this hour of bliss, which passed so quickly!

-—and his hateful duplicityI—Ah, if I had loved my hus- ” ' i

band I could never have consented, by my silence, to this
deception.”

She turned over more leaves, and read in an under-toner. ,

“‘I almost scorn myself for havin encouraged those
two men to continue their unrewardedg attentions, merely A
in order to guard my steps from spyin eyes. But do they.
deserve any thing better at my hands If they will ‘ ‘
secute a poor woman, ought she not to defend herself 4

“ Here I have it at last. . ,, ' .

“ ‘August the 10th., The letter was sent to her. I have

nothing to add, every thing is included in those words— " d i

A ‘ ."~

‘
‘ .
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. A.‘

 

i‘m’r BROTHERS” 1321‘. I

 

 

 

but has she received that letter? Has she anwered it? and
how has she done so? There must be an end to all this.
To-morrow, to-morrow, for the ver last time! I would
rather die than continue longer the life I am leading here.
The clock is striking.’ Ah, m insinuating rector, we
shall soon be uits with one anot er!”

She took a s - eet of paper and wrote as follows:

“ Slim—It is very nearly six weeks since on did me the
honor to offer me your hand, and I refuse it; since that
tlme, h0W6V91‘, you haVC presented yourself to me in the
light of a friend, and in this character you have been re-
ceived without distrust.

“Pardon me if this can no longer continue. A con-
fession which my waiting-maid made to me this morning,
deprives me of tie pleasure of seeing you in future.

“ MATHILDE.”

She rang. Not twenty minutes later Ma’amselle Sophie
delivered the note with triumphant pride to the rector,
who had come to pay his accustomed morning Visit.

 

CHAPTER XX.
THE LEGAL QUESTION.

‘ “How goes it? do you intend to hang 'ourself, or to
drown yourself?” asked Victor, as he aeci entally stum-
b ed upon his brother while sauntering along by himself,
Onthe evening of the same day. “ V on have not been
Vlfl‘l‘ble the whole afternoon.”

’To-morrow I shall be able to put the same question to

3'02, replied the rector, angrily.
“ Zounds!” exclaimed Victor, assuming an air of triumph.
I (pirceive that our bet is at an end, and that you won’t

nee 0 take advantage of the condition attached to our
agreement.”

:: What condition?”

Have on not forgotten? Well, Iwill refresh your
memory. f I do not succeed before Ileave Elfheim in
four or five days, I am to relinquish all pretensions, and
you are to have the exclusive ri it to push your luck.”

“That was merely an absur joke. ‘ Two sensible per— ‘

sons would never consider such folly binding. 1, for my
part, do not feel in the least interested in this coruette;
she amused me tolerably for a while, that was all. Iiilda,
0n the contrary—”
‘ - “ I am very glad to find that you are already trying to
 console yourself, but I strongly sus ect, though, that some
rebuff from her side has called fort this reaction in your
- feelings.”
, “It is all owing to IIilda’s sweetness, her earnestness,

“and her straightforward character.”

‘f_Pessibly—-but you have 'just come from Tysselvik,
whither you went, of course, merely from habit. What
hail) ened there? Recollect, our agreement was perfect
fra‘n ness toward each other.” ,

‘ Well, look at that,” and Edwin flung the note to Vic-

. tor, who snatched it up. “Read it when I am gone, and
Promlse me to never mention the subject again. I am as
angry and provoked with myself as a man can_ be, and I
, at? “1'9 forever more anything approaching to frivolity. I
,.;W1 1 never look at another woman again, except the one I
I“ e for a wife.”

“ The deuce, what asalutary effect the note has had
'gpon,you-iiow good-by—I am as curious as a school-

e .3 - »

' “Ihope you will remember your promise. An honest
11.1841 Is as ood as his word!”

' “ 0h, in eed, I did not know I had given any—but be it
20— may' possibly require yours in return; to-niorrow
his love affair ma be over for me, too.”

They shook hands, and then parted. ,

.1 . Vlctorpow bein alone, began to peruse the note, and a
,, ludicrous grimace he made as he murmured some

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'words to the effect how happy he was that he was not in
Edwin’s shoes. " '

That evening, according to agreement, not a s llable was
breathed of the unfortunate termination of tie rector’s
matrimonial plans. The brothers were evident! not at
their case with each other, they were constrained in their
manners, and a gloom spread itself over the whole party.

“This has been an extremely tedious evening,” com-
plaincd Bertha. iii no very amiable mood, when the young
lawyer was wishing her good-night. “May we be r-
initted to know what is the matter with both of you?”

_ “ And have you yourself, my dear cousin, been as charm-
ing as usual?” '

f‘Charming?" repeated Bertha: “Do you think I am
gOIng to waste my powers upon so worthless an object as
an ill-tempered cavalier? oh, no, indeed. I don’t intend to
be so lavis i. I shall reserve them for—”

“ The bad temper of your future husband, I sup )osc?” ,

But Bertha had not waited to hear the end of t e sen-
tence; she had hastened away, her pretty lips curled by a
port smile.

* * * I" I! it ‘I

It was again morning. Victor did not make his ap ear-
ance at the breakfast-table; he had taken something a one,
and had started off before the others had assembled. The
clock in Mathilde’s drawing-r0011 had just struck eleven,
when the young lawyer was announced. ‘

The whole wa ' to 'l‘ysselvik he had been as courageous
and stout-hearth as Hercules, but even Hercules was weak
among women; it is less to be wondered at, therefore, that
Victor felt so too.

There was on] one means which would enable him to
bear the triump i or the defeat of the day with honor,
namely, if his vanity were excited. He was determined to
be more courageous than all the heroes of past ages. But
what had come over the beautiful widow. She arose, then
resumed her seat; she blushed and turned (pale b turns; she
trembled and tried _ to speak, but coul wit 1 difficulty
steady her voice. ' . .

Victor’s confidence arose first a little, then it took a
large spring, and finally it made a gigantic stride.

“ Madame, will you have the goodness to grant my re-
quest, and kindly listen to me?” .

“ Not to—day, Mr. Wallenberg—I Will—I must—in a
word, I will listen to you to-morrow as long as you please
to speak!” .

“ Oh, that is too much, too much—dear Matlii * * "'
madame I meant to say—-that is enough for me to live upon
until then.” ‘ '

“ But,” continued Mathilde, “by~thc-by, there is some-
thing I wish to know. Perhaps you may recollect that it
was ale a1 question which—3’

“ For eaven’s sake let us have no law matters now I”

“ But this question is so easy,” persisted the widow.

“For me your command is law l” replied Victor, who
seemed to be more proud than happy. '

“ The question which I wished to put to you was this:
If aman, engaged to be married. openly and constantly
pays attention to another woman, which of the two ladies
does he insult the most ?” .

“ Oh, madame, that strictly belongs to the province of
morals.”

“ Possibly; but still I expect your answer.”

“ Permit me to defer it till toomorrow. It shall be an-‘
swered before I iut the question which you have given me
leave to ask. It eanwhilc, I am convinced that you have
glqegsed—that with your penetration you have understood
a .

“ Very probably, but do not make yourself too sure.”

I “ (2h no. I shall say to myself, Hope is not always re-
a it . '

“y And you can add, as an equally true saying, that reali-
ty is not always hope.” ' . ._

After these words, which were spoken With a peculiar

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‘ had agreed; but

v, affectionate mother; “‘wi

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was at an end.

Victor scarcely went out, he was borne on wings, but on
what wings he did not himself know, when he was a sin
seated at home in his mother’s drawin '-room. He ad

' merely an indistinct idea that he answere Edwin’s inquir-

in glances with annihilating insolence. However, he had

on y uttered four words :
“Put ofl until to—morrow
“Well, I declare, you seem to be all in the clouds ; are

you dreaming of a dwelling in the sun?” asked Bertha,

I”

.with unfeigned astonishment at the altered expression of

her cousin’s countenance.
“Yes, my dear cousm,’

’ answered Victor, in an under-

tone, as a slight sigh escaped unhidden. “ Yes, I am re-
joicing beforehand at my life in the sun. But that does
not prevent me from regretting a certain star, near which
I would have liked so much to have established myself.”

At these words the first blush which Victor had been
able to call forth, mantled Bertha’s cheeks.
not "answer.

The rector, who was standing near Hilda at the next
window, while she was calmly plying her needle, whispered
in her ear :

“ Just glance at m ‘ brother, and see how he looks.”

,“ Like a very bri it peony, which appears to be saying
to a tiny flowret-J ook at me, have I not cause to be con-
tented with myself ?’ ” ’

“Exactl so, but to-morrow, at this hour, any one who
understan s the language of flowers as well as you do, will
hear the peony whisper : ‘ Do not gaze at me, a cold wind
has damaged my beauty, and caused my leaves to droop !’ ”

The rector had expected a smile for his )retty phrase ;
biit he merely received a then htful “ Hem l”

“ All women are ungraccfu as lon as they observe that
poople‘are seeking them," thought ‘dwin. “ When one

considers the matter, however, it is not to be wondered at.

A time comes when it is the charming little wife’s turn to
show herself thankful for the slightest attention on the
part of her husband, and if he occasionally pats her cheek
affectionately, and says, ‘ How pretty you are to-day, my
dear,’ she scarcely knows whether she is in heaven or on
earth”—happy time—marriage is truly paradise in minia-
ture.

Bertha’s thoughts at that moment were: “ Can my
worthy cousin have taken refuge in astronomy on purpose ?
There is a boldness, and at the same time a longing in his
tone; my curiosity is raised ; the Lord be thanked, how-

‘ ever, that is all 1”

CHAPTER XXI.
THE LAST scans.

Ax evening as sultry and misty as the one on which our
tale began, had followed this day.

Edwm had pro osed a fishin party, and the young ladies

ictor, who iad rocked himself into a
world of bliss and triumph, had determined to employ the
evening his own way.

Perha s he counted upon being pressed to accompany
them. at Bertha did not even make the slightest at-
tempt to do so: he was obliged to remain at home, and
endeavor to fathom the great secret: in what consists hap-
piness? . It seemed so near him now, that he—according to

i is opinion—had only to stretch out his hand to grasp it.
c o the

Why, then, this half-si h, this silly inquiry whi
two young women won d make him the happiest? Bahl

J Philosophy bored him; he would have nothing to do with

it...
“ How lost in thought on are to—day, my son,” said his
{l not Bertha isten to you? she is
a most engaging girl.”

\ mt Mommas em." '

, expression, the charming widow made a gesture, which sig— ‘
vnihed more distinctly than words could do that the visit

But she (lid.

 

I \

u Dear mother, do you recollect that we once spoke of  l

another?” said Victor, without answering his mother’s
question.

“ Yes, certainly, but I have since perceived that it will
not repay either of you to take any trouble in that quarter;
besides, neither of you were really in love.”

“It is not that—wait until to-morrow, and you will see.
I had not intended to have confided it to any one, but I
may tell you, mother, that you will have a charming daugh-
ter-in-law. ”

“ My dear Victor, I fear you permit your vain—”

“It is too bad, you are always re eating that.

I only

demand twenty-four hours to prove t 1th I am born to be -

the victim of unjust suspicion.”

“ My dear boy, be that as it may, I must inform you that
this lady’s secret doings do not meet with m approbation.
An honest grief does not require the kin of diversion
which she seeks.”

“We forced ourselves upon her, dear mother, she had
nothing to do with it.”

“You may have done so in the first instance, I grant
you, but afterwards she permitted you to continue your
visits; and if this diversion were enough, what does she
do then during her solitar rows in the evening? I have no
confidence in such proceedings.”

“What can be more innocent than rowing?”
Victor.

“ Hem, hem,” the old lad 'began, but Victor would 'hear
no more; off he started to his favorite retreat under the
cliffs, and he could not have come more opportunely to see
the boat, containing the mistress of his soul, gliding over
the blue, mirror-like waters.

The 'oung man was now tempted, most powerfull
tempted. Why should he not step into his boat, and fo —
low her? A voice—the voice of delicacy, raised itself
against this proceeding. Did he not detest spying With all
his heart? had he not condemned his brother for having
made use of this system? Of course he had, but———-+—
but as his own future wife was in question, what would be
more natural, more just, and more proper, than he should
yield to his desire?

And he did yield.

Ten minutes later? he was sitting in his boat, now per-
fectly tranquil and contented, for he had succeeded in per-
suading himself that what he was doing was merely in order
to calm his mother’s fears.

as no: is s- e is

pleaded

The small island upon which the last scenes were enacted
is formed, as it were, of a labyrinth of groves; all was
smiling, pastoral, and enchanting.

_One could land at many points, and this evening there
were no less than four strange boats, which had sought a
harbor along the hospitable and inviting white beach. The
boats were moored at such a distance from each other that
the parties who had come in them could not see who landed
from each. We already know to whom two of them be-
longed; the lovelyand romantic situation of this pearl of
an island had induced the little fishing party from Elfheiin
to land there for an hour. The ladies had commanded, and
the rector had obeyed, still it must be owned that he had
done so unwilling] , for he had accustomed himself to
consider this islan as sacred; however, the wish of his
new flame conquered.

There was yet a fourth boat unaccounted for; we shall I i' '

see if we can not find an owner for it also.
is s- ' s n: e e

“ Do you like this spot, my dear cousin Hilda?”

j-

 

. .slmhy 1

“any x

a and“;

 

“Oh, very much indeed; I shall be glad to sit here -'

awhile,” replied Hilda. I
“ The ground is damp from the dew,” observed Edwin,

spreading out his cloak, upon. which Hilda seated herself .. 

without ceremony.

 

l
a A

f

y “ Have your brought Moore-with you?”
,3 “ ,Of course I have; will you permit me to read aloud to
. you?” .
“ With pleasure,” and the oun lady took her embroid-

ery from a small case, and a ter fiaving cast a long, earn-
, es glance u on the sweet surrounding scenery, and after
, havrng inha ed, in a deep breath, the fresh, fragrant air,
‘ ‘ Hilda began to work, and Edwin to read.
1 ‘.‘ It just seems as if I were not here,” cried Bertha,
f smiling, “ and to punish you I shall bid you both farewell,
and shall set off and reconnoiter the
count,” and she hastened up the hi
herself:

‘f What a girl Hilda is; did ever any one see such a

patient martyr? I am sure she suffers terribly! Yet she

, 18 as calm and quiet as ever, and she never ceases to

- work. If anybody had behaved so to me—even as it is,

I cannot compose myself to embroidery, for—for there is
so much folly 1n the world!”

On the other side of the hill Victor came sauntering
alongi—also absorbed in thought, of course.

“ ow distrustful women are, mothers in particular!
My poor, dear mother, how embarrassed she will be at first,
then afterward how rejoiced! It 18 but right that I should
do away with her fears, for who loves us so well as a
mother does? No one. and, taking all in all, whom do we
love with the same aficctiorn as we love her, to whom we
are everything?

“I should like to know which of the two is best calcu-
ated to make the most excellent mother—Mathilde 0r
~Bertha—well, that is not the point in question yet—I should
1:521? know, though, which of the two would be the best
_ “ But where can she be, my mysterious fair one? I dare
not call—the deuce—do I hear or do I not hear two voices
#110, my ears deceive me-—it does sound, though, as if two
persons were s eaking~what an absurd idea!” He stood

1 irresolute.. “ ‘lus is no freak of my ima ination, that is
~ clear. It IS deCIdedly Mathilde’s voice an that of anoth-
' er. . He went forward a few steps, gliding as softly as an
Indian. Suddenly he stopped again, confused, dismayed,
I a best! Is his VlSlOll imperfect, or is reality before him?
3' e seized hlS eye-glass, for there is deception in every

', :glng. His bet can not terminate in this manner; oh, no,

What is it that he sees, while he himself is not visible?
4 He perceives Mathilde~the adorable young widow,
whom e never for a moment doubted would acce t him
on the following day—but he does not only behol her—-
no, far from it! Before her a young man is kneeling; and
from her llpS seemed to flow words of fond afiection; she
laconsohng, imploring, and encoura ing him, while he,
Victor, who had wasted six weeks in t is con nest, is now
, -his.eyes must deceive him; coute qm‘ coute e will have
he Witness of his ears.

j And this witness ran thus:
1 “ Beloved Richard, this struggle is beyond my strength;
you must no longer lead me into temptation—milesd You
Ought to leave this neighborhood at once. My feehngs—
yes, eVen my conscience, Speaks loudly against these meet-
‘ 11138; and, besides, it pains me to keep up this farce any
,1 longpr with that honest-hearted blockhead, the lawyer. As
4 to t e rector, I fotind an excuse esterday to rid m self of
- 111m; and to-morrow it is my ot er lover’s turn— or now

that you are going to leave— ’

_"‘Mathi1de, on are cruel! Have we had so much hap-
Jnness in life t at We may not enjoy this paltry pleasure for
a few seconds, without pangs of conscience?”

ush, are your feelings calm?”
The lover bowed his head in his hands.
“ Do you not see that I am right?”
“ Permit me, at least, to stay until I have received her
| answer,” he'said, in a low, faltering voice. “If it con-

lace on my own ac-
il, as she thought to

 

 

\ .

THE 1912 organs BET.

, consent, I shall'never be so.’ Fate has taken

 

tains death, there will yet remain to us the last interview, .

when we shall take leave of each other forever.”

“ But, let me tell you, that size is here!”

' “ She—who ?—what do you mean ?”he exclaimed, spring-
ing up.

“Ah, your agitation proves that/we are not acting right-
ly. It is not sufficient that our love is as pure as heaven—
it still is wrong. Alas, Richard, why did you persuade.
me, why? I have suffered terribl on her account, on ‘our
account, on my own account, an on account of In us-
band, who is no more, for it is not proper to deceive the
world in the way I have been doin .”

I Richard had not heard a word llathilde had been say-
ing; as one in a dream, he kept repeating:

“ Size here? she!”

"‘Yes, on a visit to her aunt, You surely must now per-
ceive that an end ought to be put to this affair.”

“ Mathilde, I have told on, and I swear it once more,
if she still wishes to unite llel‘SOlf to me, the dream of this
week shall be the last of my life—remember she fancies
that on are yet bound.”

L‘, do not forget it—but do go, I beseech you, Richard,
go. a

“ Grant me a few minutes longer.
sound of our dear voice a ain!” ,

“ Ah, Richard, I never ave a moment’s peace, and for
years I have had none, except when I received your letter
telling me that you were coming to this neighborhood, and
in Wthh you fixed the first time that we should meet in
this dear, sacred spot. Ah, that letter! that dear, precious
letter! I never shall forget its contents! Do you recollect,
when we ventured to‘ hope again, how, in the first intoxica-
tion of bliss, we laughed over my messenger, the bride-

room? I am very curious to know if his intended, Bertha.
IS aware that he has worn her ring for two years. I can’t
imagine—”

At that moment Victor rushed forward; neither he, nor
the two who were taking leave of each other, had remarked

Let me hear the

that for some minutes past a new witness had been watch- ‘

ing the above scene. This new witness was none other than
Bertha herself.

The young widow and her companion became greatly em-
barrassed on Victor so suddenly making his appearance.
All three endeavored to speak; Victor, however, was the
first to find words.

“ Madame!” he said, with very dignified seriousness, “ I ,

do not think I have a right to reproach you in the slight—
est degree. We have mutually served each other’s intero‘
ests. On one occasion I was your messenger, and latterly,
if you please, your playthlng. You served me in another
way. Iy talyed-of engagement was not afiction invent-
ed to gain an interest in your eyes, and to calm your fears;
I am really betrothed to my cousin, I love her with all my
heart, but she does not love me in the way I wish to be

loved; I therefore thouglitit as well to set on foota little ins .i ‘

trigue. .Jealousy has always spurred on love—and I can
assert, without boasting, that my experiment has been of
servrce; if she were here, she would admit it herself.”

“I voluntarily admit it, and the best prOOf is, that I
have followed. you hither to see what you were about.”

At these words Victor turned quickly around, and to his
astonishment he beheld before him his charming cousin,
her face radiant with roguish smiles.

To hasten to her, seize her hand, and whisper his ardent
ttzhanks, was the work of a second, adding in still lower

ones: '

“Remember, most charming of all charming women,
that you once said, ‘If I am not engaged Without my own
you at your
word.” ‘

“ Hush, hush, we will settle that by~and~by; let me now
say a word to Richard.” _ '

“ No judgment without defense, Bertha!” eagerly ex-

‘ claimed the former brother-in-law to be. '“ Your sister

‘

\

 

 

    

 

I my letter, and shown it to you; but I have not

~ reflection, like every thing that she has done

glanci at any one except Bertha, whose heart
she be. ugly entire] y won. ‘
. e

‘ Victor, “that

 

widow for the last nine months and that we
are about to take leave of each other!”

“Miss-—” stammered Mathildle em-
barrassed. “I wasengaged to several
years before I was married- and; with the ex-
ception of three interviews here, to which the
angels might have been witness, I have nothing
fimmp’roach myself with in regard to your
8 r.

i‘ 1 am convinced of it,” lied Bertha, “ and
I am aware as well as Hilda hat you never sent
back the family relic to our to er intended
that as long as you re ed it, he pledge oi
faithfulness should be—”

“By heaVens, I perceive that Hilda has read

yet received her answer. The ma animous
girl evidently casts me 011; can it be me?”
“It is; she does so, however, calmly, after

throughout her life; butal must give ou a piece
of advice," here she gave Victor ap vate wink.
“ And I beg, for the sake of our former frien 1-
sh that you will not reject it; leave this
neig borhood immediately; quit this treacher-
ous little island instantly.

from the resent

“ And for a year countin
da ," said Mathilde, serious , but wit great

ection in her voice, “we 3 all not see each
other again. Farewell, Richard; your mother’s
gift, the image of your heart, remains till then,
as formerly, my consolation.”

She hastened away as light as a bird, without

It was about half an hour later that Victor
and his cousin after having explained one or
two little matters which wore necessary, re-
joined their party.

The rector was still reading aloud in his most
touching tones the “ Veiled Pro bet," and
Hilda’s yelled eyes rested thought ly' upon the
reader.

“ What a mercy it is, sweet Bertha,” whispered
you are gifted with so much

res'ieliéce of Inailindi Hilga illustto itha’nk you for
a esca a great ea 0 pa n.

"Just as you have to thank me for havin
escaped a great defeat,” she replied, with a 100
of intelligent warning.

“ In gratitude for your kindness, I will devote
the remainder of my life to you. Say dearest
girl, will you promise me in future to sip my
mother to correct In many faults?”

“We will see. s soon as I get my thirty
thousand xix-dollars in my possession, l promise
you that you shall receive my answer!”

THE END.

 

Waverley Library.

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lg Bartley T. Campbell.

v: Hmr. y Arabella Southworth.

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firfifihm WW“- ' “Plvlfifindar 1v egg?“ “*9
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XII. .Y PI‘OL A. M. Rat. efiEfm

HANDBOOK OF WINTER SPORTS,

EMBRACIKG 2

ROLLER-SKATING,
AMERICAN FOOTBALL,
AND ICE-BOATING,

Together’ with the Special Code of Rules for Prime Shting of the
Skatxng Congress, and Record- of Matches at Base-Bull and
Cricket on the Ice. Edited by Henry Chadwick.

5 The nbove books are sold by all Nowadealers, or sent, post-paid, on receipt of pics, 10 on. out. .:

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32 Large Three-Column page“

1. A Hard Crowd. By P. S. War-no.
2. The Dare-Devil. By COL Ingraham.
3. Kit Carson, J r., TEE CRACK SHOT OF
THE WEST. B Buckskin Sam.
4. The idnapper. By P. S. Worms.
5. The Fire-Piends. By A. P. Morris.
6. Wildcat Bob, THE Boss BRUISER;
0R, TEE BORDER BLOODEOUNDS. By Ed. L. Wheeler.
’ 7. Death-Notch, TEE DESTROYER; OR,
SPIRIT LAKE AVENGERS. By 011 Coomes.
8. The Headless Horseman. Astrange

 

 

 

69. The Irish captain. By Whittaker.
70. Hydrabad, ‘EE STRANGLER; or,
ALETEE, TEE CEILD or THE CORD. B ' Robinson.
71. Captain Cool-Blade. .E. Budget.
72. The Phantom Hand. By Aiken.
73. The Knight of the Red Cross:
or, TEE MAGICIAN or GRANADA. Dr. J. H. Robinson.
74. Captain of the Rifles. Mayne Reid.
75. Gentleman George. By Aiken.
76. The Queen’s Musketeer; or,
TEIBEE, TEE PRINCESS PALNIBT. By George Albony.

 

Price 1 0 flu.

180. Caigtain Volcano: or, TEE MAN
or THE RED OLVERs. By Albert W. Aiken.

1 3 1. Buckskin Samaria TEXAN TRAILER;
or. TEE BANDITs or TEE BRAVO. By Col. Ingraham.

132. Nemo, King of the Tramps; or,
TEE RoNANr GIRL‘s VENGEANOE. By Whittaker.

133. Body. the Rover; or. TH]: RID-
EONEAN or IRELAND. By William Carleton.

134. Darkie Dan. TEE COLORED DETEC-
TIVE; or. TEE MissIssn'PI MYSTERY. By Ingrabam.

Each N umber (tom plote.

story or Texas. By Capt. Mayne Reid. 77, The Fresh ofpris B - 135. The Bush Ran r- or Tan
9. Handy Andy. By Samuel Lover. 78. The Mysterious 8%. B;  HALFBREED BRIGADE. By Fran Joh’nson.’
wrligtglx;‘}£:gif [HE FRENCH POLICE SPY' 79. Joe Phenix, POLICE SPY. .By Aiken. 136. The Outlaw-Hunter; or. RED

11. Midshipman Easy. Capt. Marrynt.
12. The Death-Shot By Mayne Reid.
13. Pathawa ;OR, NICE WEIEELES, TEE
TRADDEE or TEE ORTEWEST. By Robinson.
14. Thayendane ea. By Ned Buntline.
15. The Ti er-S ayer. By G. Aimard.
10. The te Wizard. Ned Buntline.
17. Nightshade, TEE ROBEER PRINCE
0" HOrmsmw HEATH. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
18- The Sea Bandit. By Ned Buntline.
19. Red Cedar, THE PRAIRIE OUTLAW.
By Gustave Aimard.
2‘1)- ;‘fie Bandit at BSy- fiy Aimard.
- ' au ter° 0
THE OUTLAng 'F‘KTF’EPPBeYrgustave Agnnard. ’ B,
' 'telaw. .By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
23. The Red Warrior. By Ned Buntline
24° . '3 Flower. By G. Aimnrd.
25. The Gold.Guide, By F. Johnson.
26. The Death.ka By F. Johnson.
27. The Spotter-Detective. By Aiken.
28.   TIIE ROAD-
AGENT or 1mm Rocmrs. By Joseph E. Badger, Jr.
99- Tiger Dick, THE FARO Km; or,
TEE CAEEIEn‘s CRIME. By Philip S. Warne.
30- G031)“ Geor 9, By   Badger.
81. The New Yor   Aiken.
32- 3,1103“ of Yale; on, THE SCRAPES
OEA HARD SET or Coumlus_ By John D. Vose.
33. Overland Kit. By A, W. Aiken.
34- R°°ky Mountain Rob. 135' Aiken-
35- Kentuck. the Sport. By Aiken.
30- Injun Dick. By Albert W. Aiken.
37' Hid. the Hunchback: OR, THE

7 SWORDEAEER on THE SANTEI. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

43. Dakota Dan. TEE RECKLEss RANGER;
or, THE BEE-HUNTER? Excunsxox By 011 Coomes.

44. Old Dan Rackback, Oll Coomes.

45.  Bull's Eye. Jog.  Badger, Jr.

46. Bowie-Knife Ben. By OllCoomes.

47. Pacific Pete, Tm: PRINCE or no:
REVOLVER By Jos. E. Badger. Jr.

48. Idaho Tom, TIIE YOUNG OUTLAW
0’ SILVERWD- By 011 Coomes.

49. The WolfDemon, By A. W. Aiken.

50- Jack Rabbit, TEE PRAIRIE SPORT;
By 5.108. E. Badger, Jr.

1. Red Rob, THE Boy ROAD-AGENT.

By 011 Coomes.

52‘ De‘th Trailer, TEE CEIEE or
8°30“ By “M- Wm- F. Cody. (Buffalo Bill.)

63. Silver Sam. By Col. Dene Sara.

54‘ Alw‘ys on Hand. By P. S. Warne.
55. The Scalp Hunters. Mayne Reid.
58. The Indian Mazeppa. By Aiken.
57' The Silent Hunter. P. B. St. John.
53. Silver Knife. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.
59' The Man From Texas. By Aiken.
60- Wide Awake. By Frank Dumont.
61- Captain Seawaif. By Ned Buntline
62' L073! Heart. By Gustave Aininrd.

80. A Man of Nerve. By P. S. Warne.
81. The Human Tiger. By Aiken.
82. Iron Wrist, the Swordmaster.
By Col. Thomas H. Monstery.
83. Gold Bullet Sport. By Buflaio Bill.
84. Hunted Down. By A. W. Aiken.
85. The Cretan Rover. By Ingraham.
86. The Big Hunter; or, TEE QUEEN
OF TEE WOODS. By the author of “Silent Hunter."
87. The Scarlet Captain. Delle Sam.
88. Big Geor , THE GIANT or TEE
GUICE; or as FIVE ’UTLAw BROTHERS. By Badger.
89. The Pirate Prince. By Ingrnham.
90. Wild Will. TEE MAD RANCEERo;
01'. TEE TERRIELE TEXAN. B Buckskin Sam.
1. The Winning ar. By Aiken.
92. Bufihlo Bill. TEE BUCKSKIN KING;
By Major Dangerfield Burr.
93. Captain Dick Talbot. By Aiken.
94. Freelance, THE BUCOANEER; or, The
WAIE or TEE WAVE. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham.
95. Axhort, THE AXMAN. By A. P. Morris.
96. Double-Death. By F. Whittaker.
97. Bronte Jack, TEE CALIFORNIA
THOROUGHBRED. By A. W. Aiken.
98. The Rock Rider; or, TEE SPIRIT
OF TEE SIERRA. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker.
99. The Giant Rifleman. Oil Coomes
100. The French Spy. By A. P. Morris.
101. The Man from New York; or,
THE ROMANCE or A RICE YOUNG Wow. By Aiken.
102. The Masked Band. Goe. L. Aiken
103. Merle, the Mutineer. Ingrnham.
104. Montezuma, the erciless; or,
TEE EAGLE AND TEE SERPENT. By Col. P. Ingraharn.
105. Dan Brown of Denver. THE

109. Captain K d. By 001. Ingraham.
1 10. The Silent ifleman. By Herbert.
l 1 1. The Sun gler Captain; or, TEE
SxxrrEn’s CRIME. Byfied Buntline.
12. Joe Phenix, PRIVATE DETECTIVE;
01'. THE LEAGUE or TEE SKELETON ms. By Aiken.
113. The Sea, Slip er; or, THE AMA-
TEUR FREEDOOTERS, By Pro .J. H. Ingraham.
114. The Gentleman from Pike: or,
TEE GHOST on- m1: Cmox, Philip S. Warne.
115. The Severed cad. Whittaker.
116. Black Plume, THE DEVIL or TEE
SEA; or. TEE SOMERESS or HELL-GATE. By Ingraham.
1 7. Da Dandy, TEE HorsrUR or
TEE HILLS. By Manor Dangerfield Burr.
18. The Bur 13.;- Captain; or, TEE
FALLEN STAR. By ProEJ. H. Ingrabam.

19- Alabama Joe. By J- 13- Badger-
120. The Texans y. By N. M. Curtis.
121. The Sea C et. By Instabm.
122. Saul Sabberdayflim IDIOT SPY;

or, LULIONA, Tm: sin-mom, B Ned Buntline.

123. Alapaha, the Sgw; or, TEE
RENEGADEs or TEE BORDER. By cis Johnson.

. Assowaum, the Ave er; or,

TEE D00»: or TEE DESTROYERS. By Franc Johnson.

125. The Blacksmith outlaw; 01';

JOHN, TEE BusE RANGER. By Francis Johnson.

137. Long Beard. TEE GIANT SPY By
0!] Coomes.

138. The Border Bandits: or, TEE
HOEsE-TEIEE‘E TRAIL. By Francis Johnson.

139. PireJJye, THE SEA HYENA; or,
TEE BRIDE or A BUOCANEER. By Col. P. lngraham.

140. The Three Spaniards. By
George Walker.

141. Equinox Tom, TEE BULLY or RED
Boos. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.

142. Captain Crimson, THE MAN 01" THE
IRON FACE. y Major Dangerfield Burr.

143. The Csar’s Spy: or. TEE NIEILIST
LEAGUE. By Col. Thos. Boyer Monstery.

144. The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.
By Victor Hugo. g

145. Pistol Pards. By W. R. Eyster.

146. The Doctor Detective; or, TEE
MYSTERY or TEE GOLDEN ComN. By Geo. Lemuel.

147. Gold S ur. TEE GENTLEEAN FROM
TEXAS. By Colonel remiss Ingrabam.

148. One - Armed Alf. TEE GIANT
HUNTER or TEE GREAT LAKES. By 011 Coomes. '

149. The Border Rifles. By Aimard.

150. El Rubio Bravo, KING OF THE
Swonnan. By COL Thomas Hoyer Monstery.

151. The Preebooters. By Aimard.

152. Captain Ironnerve, TEE COUN-
TEREEITER CEIEr. By Marmaduke Dey.

153. The White Scalper. By Aimard.

154. Joaquin, TEE SADDLE KING. By

38. Velvet Hgnd. B A. w_ Amen. ROCKYM D _ B Joan J . Jmeph E. Badger, Jr.
39- The Russian Spyy. By Whittaker. 106.0gm1u3:Wrieg Col. Ifiieggir; Prentifi'rhe Corsair Queen. By Col.
40' The Long Haired ‘Pard53' 0“. 107. Richard Talbot of Cinnabar; n “a “sum”

, THE T‘BT-‘ms 01' THE Mixes. By Joe. E. Budget-IT- 01‘. TEE BROTEERs or-rEEREDHAND. ByA.W. Aiken. 158- velvet rue. By Major D3389"
41- Gold Dan. By Albert W. Alken. 108. The Duke ofDiamonds: or, THE field 3°"-
42. California Detective, By Aiken. mem or CAwU'I'rA. By Capt. Fred. Whittaker. 157. Mourad. THE MAMELUXE. By

Col. Thomas Boyer Monstery.

158. The Doomed Dozen; or, Do-
wns, TEE DANITE‘s DAUGHTER. By Dr. F. Powell.

159. Red Rudiger. TEE ARCHER By
Captain Merlck Whittaker.

160. Soft Hand. Ska : or, TEE MAN
WITE TEE SAND. By William' R. yster.

161. The Wolves of New York: or,
JOE PEENIx‘s GREAT MAN HUNT. By A. W. Aiken.

162. The Mad Mariner: or, DISEON—
ORED AND Disomn. By Col. Prentiss Ingmham.

163. Ben Brion, TEE TRAPPED. CAP-
TAIN. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

164. The King’s Pool: OR THE
KNIGErs or TEE Cusrsn HANDS AND RED BRANCH.
By C. D. Clark.

165. Joaquin. the Terrible. By Joe.
E. Badger, Jr.

166. Owlet, the Robber Prince; or,
TEE UNKNOWN HIGEVAYIIANS By Septimus RUrban.

167. Wild Bill. TEE PISTOL DEAD SHUT;
r, DAGGEE DON‘s DOUBLE. By Colonel Preuugs
Yngrabam. Ready January 4th.

168. Corggral Cannon. TEE MAN or

63. The W (1 Whale. B Aiken. MERRY ENGLAND. By Harrison Ainswortb. FORTE DUELs. Colonel Thomas Hover Monste '.
. 3’04. Doublei-figt. the Death Shot. Ltifug'oghO ngon wheat“ or, THE 3; January 113:.
, Jose hE. Badge , . "EL yColone os. . onstery. .‘ q 1 ) ‘
f 65. The Rodr r ah. By F. Whittaker. 127- 301 Scott. TEE MASKED MINER; or, A m” “me "my "6“-

 

' 66. The

specter ue. Mayne Reid.
67. The Boy Bee

By J. E. Badger.

he
‘68. The I'ighflnfi r or, KIT
CAEEON To TEE Races. y  J. I"? C. Adams.‘

 

DAN BROWN‘S Donna. By Joseph E. Badger-
128. The Chevalier Corsair: or. T3!

HERITAGE or HATRED. By the author of "Merle."

129. Mississippi Mose. By EdWilleit. J

 

Beadle’s Dime Library is for sale by all
Newsdealeu. ten cents per copy, or sent by mail on -

receipt of twelve cents each. BEADLE& ADAMS, j

Publishers. 98 WilliamStreet. NewYork.

 

 

 

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  'fésu .- ‘a ‘Comblete novel and sold“ the  price of m GEN TS. No double price numbers.

1 WAI SHE HIS WIFE? Mrs. Mary ReedCrowell.

2 FLEEING FROM LOVE. By Harriet Irving.

8 DID HE LOVE HER? By Eartha; T. Campbell.

4 A STRANGE WOMAN. lieu. inwood.

ii Two (iIRI.s‘ LIVES. By 1m. M. R. Cl‘uwell.

9 THE WAR or HEARTS. By Corinne Cushman.
11 THE FALSE WIDOW. B rs. J. 1). Burton.
12-13 LOST FOR LOVE. By 'ss M. E. Braddon.
14-15 Tormms or THE SEA. By Victor Hugo.

16 THE QCADROON. By Catharine A. Warm-1d.

1 8 UNCLE SILAS. By J. S. Le Farm.

1. DEAD-SEA FRUIT. By Miss M. E. Braddou.
21-23 LITTLE KATE KIRIIV. B ' F. W. l obinson.
23 SOWING THE WIND. By Myra. Mary  Croweli.
24-25 BIRDS or PBEY. By Miss M. E. B: addou.

20 TIIAT BOY or NORCOTT'S. Char es IAEVQ‘T.

27-23 CilAnLO’l'i‘E'S INIIERITANCE. By Miss Braddon.
29 A GIRL‘S HEART. By Rett Winwood.

8031 RED As A ROSE Is SHE. By Rhoda. Broughton.
39 THE LILV or ST. ERNE. By Mrs. Crow.

83 STRANGELY WED. B Mrs. J. D. Burton.

84 THE GIPSV BRIDE. y M. E. O. Malen.

35 ANNIE TEMPLE. By Rev. J. Ii. In ham.

as WrI'IIOUT MERCY. By Henley T. mpbell.

87 BLACK EYES AND BLUE. B Corinne Cushman.
38 BRAVE BARBARA. By CO nne Cushman.

89 ADANGEROUS WOMAN. et Blount.
40 OUIDA‘S LOVE. B Henrietta E. eConde..

41 LOST: A WIFE. Corinne Cushman.

42 WntNING WATS. By Miami-St Blount

43 A WOMAN‘S HEART. By . M. V. Victor.

1: gngfitfiEIB DAUGHng 

40 A WOMAN'S HAND. By author of “ Dead Letter.“
47 v IALS or WRATH. By Mrs. Mary R. CrowelL.

48 A WILD GIRL. By Corinne Cushman.

49 THE MADDEST MARRIAGE EVER WAS. By Burton.
50 LOVE IN A MAZE. By Mrs. E. F. Eliot.

51 CATHOLINA. By Dr. J. H. Robinson.

52 A ROMANCE or A POOR YOUNG GIRL. E. F. Eliot.
53 THE LOCKED HEART. By Corinne Cushman.

54 THE PRIDE OR THE Downs. By M. Blount.

55 A STRANGE GIRL. By Albert W. Aiken.

56 THE PRETTY PURITAN. By A Parson‘s Daughter.
57 DID SHE SIN? By Mrs. Mary Reed Croweli.

Waverley

MACMAMA,“AL\,A~. "MM ,4 A..-v‘ , .. WV-

 

5‘5 I)onru.v DIVORCE». By Jenna: ngi‘sI Burton.
0 . . .

59 A WICKED WOMAN. by Blake
60 BLIND BARSARA’s SECH’IA Mary we,
61 ANAMERICAN UEEN. By Grace Mort er.
6? MARGOUN, THE TRANGE. By Wm. M. Turner.

‘68 WIFE OR Wmow. ‘By Rett Wiuwood.

64 THE CREOLE COUSINs. By Phili S.Warne.

65 PURSI'ED To THE ALTAII~ By C. shman.

66 THE TERRIBLE TRUTH. B Jennie D. Burton.

07 ELEGANT EGIIERT. By hilipS. Warne.

08 LADY HELEN’S Vow. B Mrs. E. F. Ellet.

69 BOWIE. THE KNIGHT or VALRY. P. S. Warne.

70 DRIFTING To RUIN. By Mary Reed Crawell.

71 THE PARSON‘S DAUGHTER By A Parson’s
Dau hter.

72 THE YBTERIOUS GUARDIAN. By C. Cushman.

79 WAS SHE A WIFE. By Rett Wlnwood.

74 ADRIA. THE ADOPTED. By Jennie D. Burton.

75 PRETTY’AND PROUD. By Corinne Cushman.

76 THE BITTER FEUD. By Jennie D. Burton.

77 A WOMAN'S WORK. By‘Mrs. E. F. Ellet.

78 THE BLACK RIDDLE. B Corinne Cushman.

79 CORAL AND RUBY. B . ennie Davis Burton.

80 D1VOR('ED BUT NOT WIDED. By A Parson‘s
Daughter.

81 ALMOSTMARRIED. ByAParson's Daughter.

82 Two FAIR WOMEN. B Wm. M. Turner.

83 THE INHERrrANCE or ATE. J. D. Burton
84 PEARL or PEARLS. By A. P. orris Jr.
Reed (31 owell.

85 FOR HONOR‘S SAHE. By Mar
86 LANCE URQURART’S LOVES. y Annie Thomas.
87 SAFELY MARRIED. B author of “ Caste."

88 FLORE-I'TE. By Col. rentiss Ingraham.

89 THREE TIMES DEAD. By Miss M. E. Braddon.
90 FOR A WOMAN’S SARE. By Watts Phillips.
91 ‘HE COMETH NOT,‘ SHE SAID. By Thomas.
92 THE NEW MAGDALEN. By Willde Collins.
98 AN OPEN VERDICT. By Miss M. E. Braddon.
94 SWORD AND GOWN. By Geo. A. Lawrence.
95 A BEGGAR ON HORSEEACK. By James Payne.
96 HER FACE WAS HER FORTUNE. By Robinson.
97 JANE EYRE. By Charlotte Bronte.

98 WRDCEED IN PORT. By Edmund Yates.

99 THE COLLEEN BAWN. By Gerald Griffin.
100 AN AMSITIOUS GIRL. By A Celebrated Actress.

101 FOUL Y. By Reade and Boucicault.
102 CARITA. y Mrs. Oliphant. ~
103 A WOMAN HATER. , By Charles Reade.
104 AFTERDARK. By Wilkie ( inst.

105 IIAIID TIMES. B Chnri~ s weighs.

106 GRIP. By B. L. arjeon.

107 FENTON’S QUEST. By Miss Braddon.

108 THREE FEATHERS. By W. Black.

109 JOHN HALnrAx. GENTLEMAN. Miss Mulock.
110 MURPHY’S MASTER. By J. Payn.

111 HEAPS OF MONEY. By W. E. Norris.

112 IN MORTAL PERIL. B M R. Croweli.
113 THE DEAD SECRET. gywaiiine Collins.
114 PLAYING To WIN. By G. M. Fe-un.

115 DENIS DUVAL. By W. M. Thackera .

116 Too SOON. By Katherine S. Mac&10iii.
117 THE Two DESTINIES. By Wilkio Collins.
118 AT H18 MERCY. By Corinne Cushman.
119 CECIL’S TRYST. By James Payn.

120 CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE. and CHRISTIE JOHN-
STONE. By Charles Reade.

121 VALERIE. By Captain Marryat.
1C2 BOUND BY A SPELL. By H. Rebak.

123 THE GOLDEN LION or GRANPERE. By An-
thony Trollope.

124 THE CURATE IN CHARGE. By Mrs. Oliphant.
5'

December 8th.

125 THE MIDNIGHT SUN. B Fredrika Bremer.
Benny December 15th.
1% THE PILGRIMS or THE RHINE. E. L. Bulwer
Ready December 29d.

127 FOUND DEAD. By James Payn.
Ready December 29th

128 HARRY BEA-moors. By Anthon§ Trollope.
Ready anuarybth

129 THE FUGITIVES. By Mrs. 011 hant.
y January 12th.
130 THE Bur or HUEEANDG. By James Payn.
Ready January 19th.
A new issue every week.

For sale by al! newsdealers. or sent. postage
paid, on receipt of twelve cents. BEADLE AND

 

; LISP

 

ADAMS. Publishers as William street. N. Y.

ary.

WAAMM

The Only Young Ladies‘ Library of First-Class Copyright Novels ’Published. Price, Five Cents.

1 THE MASK%BRIDE. By Mary Reed Croweli.
2 WAS IT Lo By Wm. Mason Turner.
THE GIRL WIFE. B Bartiey T. (lampbelL
A BRAVE HEART. Arabella Southworth.

5 BESSIERAYNOR. THE ORK GIRL W. M. Turner.
6 THE SECRET MARRIAGE. BE Sum Claxton.
7 A DAUGHTER or EVE. By arered Croweli.
8 HEART TO HEART. By Arabella Sonthworth.
9 ALONE IN THE WORLD. B Authorof “Clifton.”
10 A PAIR or GRAY EYES. y Rose Kennedy.
ll ENTANCLED. By Henrietta Thackerag
12 HIS LAWFUL WIFE. By Mrs. Ann 8. tep‘lligns.
13 MADCAr, THE LITTLE QUAREREss. By One an.
14 WHY I MARRIED HIM. By Sara Claxton.
15 A FAIR FACE. By Bartley '1’. Cam be
10 TRUST HER NOT. By Margaret Leicester.
17 ALOYAL LOVER. By Arabella Southworth.
18 HIS IDOL. B Mrs. Mary Reed Croweli.
19 THE BRoxEN ETROTHAL. By Mary G. Hal ne.
20 OarHAN NELL. THE ORANGE GIRL. A '10 enne.
21 Now AND FOREVER. By Henrietta ackeray.
22 THE BRIDE or ANACTOR. By Author "Clifton."
$8 LEAP YEAR. 11 Sara Claxton.
94 HER FACE WAS .1 ER FORTUNE. Eleanor Blaine.
25 ONLYA SCIIOOLMIHTRESS. Arabella Southworth.
26 WITHOUT A HEART. By Col. P, Ingraham.
27 WAS SHE A (‘Ofirmnl By H. Thackeray.
98 Sum. CHASE. y Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
29 FOR HER DEAR SAEE. By Sara Ciaxton.
30 THE BOI‘QUET GIRL. By Agile Penne.
81 A MAD MARRIAGE. ByMary A. Dennison.
82 MIRIANNA. TIIE PRIMA DONNA. By Southworth.
83 THE THREE SISTERS. By Alice Fleming.

’ 81 A MARRIAGE or CONVENIENCE. By S. Ciaxton.
85 SINNEO AGAINST. By Clare Augusm.

‘ 80 SIR ARCIIER‘S BRIDE. By Alain-Ha Southwortb.
37 THE COUNTRY COUSIN. By Rose Kennedy.
88 IIIR OWN AGAIN. By Arabella Southworth.
89 FLIRTATION. By Ralph Royal.
410 PLEDOED To MARRY. By Sara Claxton.
Iii BLIND DEVOTION. By Alice Flvming.
42 BEATRICE. THE BEAUTIFUL. By A. Southworth.
48 THE BARONIT'B SECRET. By Sara Claxton.

 

 

44 THE ONLY DAUGHTER. By Alice Fleming.

45 HER HIDDEN FOE. By Ara 11a Southworth.
46 THE LITTLE HEIREss. By M. A. Denison.
47 RECAURE SHE LOVED HIM. B Alice Fleming.
48 SPITE or HERSELr. By S. . SherWOOd.

49 HIS HEART’S MISTRESS. B A. Southworth.

50 THE CUEAN HEIREss. By ar A. Denison.
51 Two YOUNG GIRLS. By Alice lowing.

52 THE WINGED MESSENGER. By Mrs. Croweli.
5'3 AGNES HO ‘, THE ACTRESS. By W. M. Turner.
54 ONE WOMA S HEART. BE 0901;? B. Kaime.
55 SEE DID NOT LOVE HIM. y A. uthworth.

56 LOVE-MAD. By William Mason Turner, M. D. .

57 A BRAVE GIRL.’ B Alice Flemin .
58 THE EEON MASK. y Mrs. Croweli.
59 A WIDow’s WILER. By Rache Bern rdt.

60 CECIL‘S DECEIT. By Mrs. Jennie Devi rton.

61 A WICKED HEART. B§Sara Claxton.
62 THE MANIAC BRIDE. {’Margaret Biount.
68 THE CREOLE SIsTEIIs. y Anna E. Porter.

64 WHAT JEAIOI'SY DID. By Alice Fleming.
65 THE WIRE s SECRET. ‘ B Col. Juan Laws.
66 A BROTHER‘S SIN. By chel Bernhardt.
67 FOREIDDEN BANS. By Arabella Southworth.

68 Wanna AND Wm. By Miss M. E Braddon- |
El.

69 CAMILLE. ByAlexander
70 THE Two OWNS. By D‘EDDOIE.
71 MY YOUNG WIFE. By My YoungW O'BHUSband

72 THE Two WIDows. By Annie Thomas.

73 ROSE MICHEL. By Maude Hilton.

74 CECIL CASTLEMAINE’S GAGE. By Guide.

75 THE BLACK LADY or DUNA. By J. S. Le Fanu.

76 CHARLOTTE TEMPLE. By M. Bowaon.

77 CHRISTIAN Omm‘s MISTAKE. By the author
of “John Halifax, Gentleman."

78 My YOUNG HUSBAND. By Myself.

79 A QUEEN AMONGST WOMEN.

80 Has LORD AND MASTER. By Florence Marryat.

81 LUCY TEMPLE.

89 A LONG TIME A00. ByMotGOI'red.

83 PLAYING FOR HIGH STARTS. By Annie'l‘homas.

84 THE LAUREL BUSH. By the author of “John
Halifax, Gentleman.”

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‘n-AI—syoxr—v-y" I"~f~~l’

' 85 LED Y. By Octave Feuiiiet.

86 JANE-T‘s mum. By George Eliot.

87 ROMANCE OPA POOR YOUNG MAN. By Feuiliet.
88 A TERRIBLE DEED. By Emma Garrison Jones.
89 A GILDSD SIN.

90 THE AUTHOR’S DAUGHTER. By Mary Howitt.
91 THE JM. By Charles Reade.

92 EILEEN ALANNA. By Dennis O'Sullivan.

m LOVE’s VICTORY. By B. 1.. Far On.

94 THE QUIET HEART. BiiMrs. Oi hunt.

95 LETTICE ARNOLD. Bv rs. Mars .

96 HAUNTED HEARTS. By Rachel Bernhardt.

97 HUGH MELTON. By Catharine Ki .

08 ALICE LEARMONT. By Miss Muloc . '

09 MARJORIE BRUCE‘S onER. B§Mary Patrick.
100 THROUGH FIRE AND WATER. y Fred. Talbot.
101 HANNAH. By Miss Mulock. .
102 Pm WomNGTON. By Charles Reade.

103 A DESPERATE DEED. By Erskine Boyd,

104 SHADOWS ON THE SNOW. By B. L. Farjeon,

105 THE GREAT HOGGARTT DIAMOND. Thackeray.
106 FROM DREAMS To WAIING. By E. L unto“.
107 POOR ZEPH. By F. W. Robinson.

106 Tm; sin FORTUNE or THE REV. Aloe BAR-
TON. By George Elliot. Ready Dec. 6th.

109 BREAD-anu: AND KISSES. By B. L.

Farjeon. Ready Dec. 18th.
110 THE WAHDEEING HEIR. By Charles Reade.
Ready Dec. m .

111 THE Emma's BET. Emilie F. glen.
ByReady Dec. .

112 A HERO. ByMiss Mulock. Ready Jan. 8d.
,113 PAUL AND Vlgglmn. From the French (it

Bernardin do Pierre. Ready Jan. 10th.
114 "has I! AwAR‘s BAY. By Walter
Besant and ames Rice. Beach Jan. 17th.

A new issue every week.
THE WAVEam Liana! is for file by an
Newsdealera. five cents per copy. 01' sent by
'mail on receipt of six cents each.
BEADHE AND ADAMS. Publishes,
‘ % Wifliam direct. New York.
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