cannot bear a little pain in order to pay respect to the lady whose future happiness is to be the care of your life-whose acceptance of your hand confers on you so great am honour, so much distinction.'

'Sir, it is not a little pain that I should have to bear.'

'Perhaps not; but a brave man will bear a great deal, rather than seem to slight a lady who is entitled to his highest respect. My son, there are rumours about, among the gossips of Badheim, which make this sacrifice on your part a positive duty.'

The gossips of Badheim are nothing to me; and the only person who has the right to ask this sacrifice has absolved me from it; therefore I shall not be present at the meeting.'

'Whatever the Countess may have said, listen to me. Your absence will be a personal affront to me. Do you hear?—to me-to your father.' 'I am sorry you should choose to feel it so. It is no intention of mine to offend you; but I must go.'

'How can you say it is not your intention to offend me, when you are taking the step that I have told you is an offence ?

Ernest was walking silently away.

'Stop!' said his father.

He then stood still, but did not approach nearer. Wertheim joined him, and grasped his arm tightly, whispering low and angrily

'You are behaving like a madman! You are going to the Conways.

'No; I am going home.' ·

"That is an evasion. You will go to the Conways from thence.' 'I shall not-I swear to you that I shall not!'

On this old Wertheim let go his arm, and Ernest went outside the lodge, and mounted his horse.

en

The Baron had heard only a few fragments of the foregoing dialogue, for his attention was grossed by the Countess Rosenberg. She followed with anxious looks Ernest's movements, and her head drooped despondingly; but all at once it was lifted up, and her face was glowing. The Baron wiped

his eye-glass and attentively examined her. Whence did that gleam of sunlight come that played about her? Where was the opening in the clouds? How came the change? Ernest was gone-who was near her? He could only see the Hauptman Otto, who bowed slightly to her and turned away; but she held in her hand a bunch of wild forest flowers. Did their beauty waken a delight so great? was she so innocent a child? .She was known to have a passionate liking for the forest, but it was strange to carry the love of nature so far, strange that the sight of a few flowers should call up such a radiance. There was a loving look for every leaf; who had presented them? was it Otto? The Baron accosted him. Was there something hasty in the tone of his reply -something irritable and was it quite by chance that he trod on poor Arno's tail?

D'Entzberg stood still a moment wondering, and then he went on to the Countess and made his excuses for leaving the festivities, with the usual amount of ceremony and with a number of profound bows.

He was so upset, he said, so broken-hearted for his young English friend, for his dear child, for his lovely Miss Ida, so nervous lest she should be ill, that he must go to inquire after her. He trusted that the Countess would graciously excuse him.

The Countess told him with a sweet courtesy that they should certainly miss him as one of the most lively members of their social meeting, but that she could not fail to sympathize with the feeling that took him away.

Another still deeper bow from the Baron, and he kissed with reverence the hand that was extended to him, and then turned to admire the nosegay that the other held.

Ah,' said he, Countess, you are so kind, so kind, so gentle in nature, so condescending there, I see you cherishing a few wild flowers, such as we used-up withered old courtiers never look at as we tread upon them, the com

mon growth of our forests that we contemptuously trample down. I see you holding them so tenderly, gracing them with your gracious touch, treating them with as much respect as if they came out of a royal hothouse.'

The Countess blushed deeply, and excused the blush which she felt as it passed over her face, by complaining that the Baron paid her too many compliments.

'It is no merit,' said she, 'to have a singular taste; I prefer our native forest flowers to any exotics.'

She spoke shortly as if desiring to end the dialogue, and the Baron was too well bred to go on with the subject, and began now to thank her for the manner in which she admitted his apology.

You must excuse me,' said he, "if I tell you again that I am very sensible of your goodness; you are so amiable when you say you shall miss the company of a poor old disgraced ex-chamberlain as I am; so amiable to enter into the sentiment that withdraws me from an entertainment at which I ought to be so proud to find myself. But indeed this Miss Ida holds a large place in my old heart, and my anxiety for her will not let me rest.'

'She has,' replied the Countess, so many attractions that I cannot feel surprised at your regard.'

Miss Conway,' said Wertheim, joining them, is certainly very pretty, and she sings delightfully; but I know qualities much beyond hers, though I would not say a word in her disparagement. I am truly sorry for her accident, but there has been, I think, too much said about it; and I am really glad to find that my friend Sir Archibald at least retains his self-possession, and does not intend to desert our party. His daughter cannot, I am sure, be in better care than in that of her excellent Aunt Kitty.'

CHAPTER XIII.

The Schloss Wertheim was a vast, ancient, melancholy building, with high gabled roofs, surrounded

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by a moat, and approached by a drawbridge; a relic of bygone centuries, it was situated on a flat plain enclosed by mountains, and along the foot of these mountains extended for many miles a sombre forest of firs. It was a grand, dismal place, fit for meditations and regrets; and here it was that Ida now found herself.

The old Count's wisdom had suggested to him that her removal from Badheim for a time would be the best step to relieve his son from the despondency which after the day of the hunt took possession of him; Ida was ill; how could she be otherwise? When the mind and body receive a shock simultaneously, it goes hard with the strongest constitution.

Her heart had lost its peace; the current of the blood was disturbed, and the nerves were shaken. Dr.

Enghel was called in. She requested to see him alone, and then in high excitement, with senses fevered and overworn, she related to him the history of her brother's fall, and the loss she had in his death, and she said how her soul had rejoiced in the belief granted for one short, happy moment of just such an end for herself.

'You see, Doctor,' said she, turning in her bed, I have but one wish for you to gratify; I only want to be quite quiet, and to lie down there as soon as may be, by his side at Hollybrook. I have sometimes wished it before, when I was in England, but till yesterday I had almost forgotten it, for in this place, this Badheim, you know, there is so much crowd and noise one cannot think enough.'

Dr. Enghel administered a composing draught. There were visits of inquiry all day at the Maison Entzberg. The Baron was unceasing, the Valincourts, the Professor Geier, Mr. Orme, Potolski, Carlotta, Madame Stein, were frequent; cards poured in from all directions. The Countess Rosenberg, and even the Grand-Duchess, sent to inquire; a circumstance that was very generally discussed, and very generally supposed to have a curative tendency. Every

day the father Wertheim came and brought with him his son's card. At the end of the fourth day he begged for an interview with Miss Catherine Conway, and then with the kindest courtesy he expressed his regret for his young friend's indisposition; his remorse for his Blucher's vices, and at the same time, his satisfaction in the physician's assurance that all was now going well, and that a period of complete rest would set things quite right. Now came his suggestion of a removal to his own favourite country residence, Wertheimburg, which was twenty miles from Badheim, far remote from stir and noise, and innocent of railway traffic. He put this house, with the servants it contained, entirely at Miss Conway's disposal. He hoped she would think well of it. Neither he nor his son should be there at all during the next month, and Miss Conway would have the whole domain under her command.

Many reasons operated for the acceptance of the offer. Ida longed for quiet, longed for escape from Badheim, from her trouble, from Captain Warburton, from herself. If she moved away among new scenes, she might cease for ever to think of how much she had risked and how much she had lost, and at any rate she should be veiled from the observation of friends who took an interest in her-of sympathizing friends of intruding curiosity. Aunt Kitty saw things as she did, and was ready to break away from the amount of friendship that she was forced to endure; from the visits and from the gossip. The fact that her retreat was to Count Wertheim's own place, would at once silence many impertinent reflections. That they went there on his invitation, would make it sufficiently evident that there was no offence, no quarrel, and thus Ida would maintain her dignity, and the only fault would be Blucher's. With these cogitations Sir Archibald had nothing to do, but it suited him very well that his sister and daughter should absent themselves from Badheim for awhile,

and so Ida went, leaving behind her the scene of happiness and of agitation, of hope and of doubt, of confident love and trembling distrust; leaving the places that were linked with one constant, tender thought, that showed at every turn one image, that were full of the music of one voice. She thought that she wished to leave them, but when she left them she wept. Yes; she looked fondly on each and all of those objects which had become so dear by their associations, on the green meadow and the shady grove; on the gay promenade, the bright garden, and the dim old castle ruin crowning the heights beyond. Insensible nature was to her as a feeling friend on whose heart were impressed the deep sensations of her own, and while she looked she dropped the tears that fall for such a parting. The tears of a profound, sweet sorrow.

In the early morning before her departure, quite unexpectedly, Dorothea came to her bedside and clasped her in her arms, and in a paroxysm of pain and of terror informed her that a misunderstanding had arisen between herself and her brother; that he had unfortu nately met Potolski coming out of her sitting-room; that he had addressed him in a contemptuous manner; that some unpleasant words had passed between them, and that finally Ernest had even struck the Pole with his riding-whip; that Potolski had generously refrained, out of regard for her feelings, from any retort, and had with a calm dignity left the house; that her whole soul had followed him, had gone forth with him then with an excessive devotion-for more than ever he was dear then, when he bore an insult for her sake. That Ernest had questioned her passionately how it came that Potolski had been there; that he had spoken angrily, indistinctly, with unintelligible hints and threats, and that she had been frightened; that her great alarm had made her untrue, and that she had positively assured him that Potolski's visit had been not to herself, but to her gouvernante, Madame Wolff.

When the narration reached this point it was interrupted by an exclamation from Ida, who abhorred the falsehood. Dorothea replied to it by a caress and a burst of tears, and said between her sobs

'Do not look so at me, my Ida, my Idachen, my beloved friend! Do not sit up there, fixing severe eyes upon me. Rest your head again upon your pillow, sweet love, sweet sisterkin! dearest and best of friends-and listen to me quietly. You must know it was not altogether false this that I told my brother, for it is really true that the Chevalier and Madame Wolff are old acquaintances; and after all the visit might have been to her, if it had been to her-nay, it was perhaps intended partly for her.'

Ida listened with grief; but, exhausted with her own feelings, she had not the strength to remonstrate any more. While Ernest's hot anger was hotly described she trembled, and her thought was turned towards him with a strong undesired sympathy-a sympathy that surmounted resentment a sympathy that she thought she ought to conquer. Unable to interrupt, she let Dorothea's confessions flow on; she disapproved, but she pitied; and when the Countess at last parted from her in anguish, and whispered, while she closely embraced her, that this exile of her only true friend from Badheim looked to her like the omen of an impending ruin, she answered her with tears instead of reproaches.

How many thoughts crowded within her brain, how many sensations struggled within her heart, when she rose and dressed herself for her departure. It was necessary to submit to the infliction of farewell visits. Madame de Valincourt came with her caressing smiles and her dangerous whispers ; Félicie, with her over-abundant demonstrations of affection; Emily Warburton gave her a quiet kiss; Baron Entzberg arrived with his dog at the last moment.

Ach, mein Gott! Miss Ida-my lovely Miss Ida-what shall zis poor old man myself do when your

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company is gone, when it is all a busy solitude, because you shall be no more? I am late, ach! so late, for I have been trotting. Do you know, zere is a scene last night at our salle; zere is a scene too, today, at our palace between our Grand-Duchess and our Countess Rosenberg. How many more shall be yet? And it is loud talk in our shops who serve Auguste de Valincourt, for his losses at play. Ach, Gott! it is so triste at Wertheimburg. Do you know, all big blue devils live at Schloss Wertheim: it is full of none else! So ? -have we here our Graf's old carriage? Du Himmel! he has painted his wheels blue: zis old carriage shall last for ever. Its jour de naissance is one day before our great deluge, or else it is perhaps an ark fragment-a holy ark fragment-left swimming and alive. Ach, mein Gott! shall I divide from you, my best adored Miss Ida?'

The soft-hearted old Baron retained her hand in his to the very last moment while she mounted the carriage steps; and his grey eyes glistened and their borders grew red while he poured out his blessings upon her; blessings in which Captain Warburton's heart joined, but his voice was silent. He stood with Emily at the garden gate, and seemed unable to speak -a rare circumstance with him.

The stillness and gloom of Wertheimburg equalled Baron Entzberg's description. The house had the grandeur of size and the interest of antiquity about it, with a certain desolate splendour. In the sleeping apartments there were solid silver services, and the heavy frames of the mirrors and the lofty silver ewers showed in high relief all the interminable quarterings of the Wertheims. The bed-hangings were magnificent; the walls were tapestried; but still on the whole, to English eyes, English comfort was wanting, and the large rooms seemed unfurnished and forlorn, for the German nobility require neither carpets, nor sofas, nor easy chairs; require nothing but their pipes. A massive richly-carved

table, a few chairs, a grand pianoforte, these were the sole contents of the principal sitting-room, lofty and wide, looking out upon a stately flower-garden, in the centre of which stood a sun-dial of huge proportions. The most interesting portions of the house were an apartment containing portraits of the Wertheim family, and a spacious hall known as the Rittersaal, flanked on either side with empty suits of armour, once instinct with life and ferocious daring, and even now mounted as if ready for their grim service. The ponderous arm yet rested upon the battle spear, the dark visor might yet hide a haughty face. In this great hall, where chivalry once met and feasted, the imagination was roused and turned to wander back through the dust of former centuries. Aunt Kitty, whose spirit had been depressed in the general dreariness of the place, was excited to a kind of rapture here, and the old steward heard her exclamations with a quiet approbation; but to Ida the scene was of little import. Her thought was memory, and it was of no use that she had left Badheim, for Badheim had followed her here, with its people, its dialogues, and its impressions.

Her mind continually busy with these shifting views, for ever turning over the past, for ever straining to alter the unalterable, her body became indolent and inactive. Ă sharp sense of injury and of disgrace was still over every other sensation predominant. She had been ill used. She could have borne it better perhaps if she had not felt herself to blame. Her affections should have been better guarded. She was surely a fool to believe, as she had believed, in a countenance and in a voice. She should have waited for the spoken word; or she should have turned to appreciate a truer affection; for what was this man, that the image of him should destroy her life? If it were to be so, if all her quiet, all her peace, all her hope, were to go down before one human influence, it must be the fault of her own weakness, and she would not longer

endure it. She would erect a strong barrier within herself against that assault. She would veil, she would cloud, she would obliterate those impressions of early days, of incautious youth. She would learn to forget the secret sympathy, the murmured confidence, and the divine trust. She would rise with a strong resolution to annihilate or utterly to despise the past. She would rise and free herself from a subjection that was humiliating. She would not pine in sickly idleness, nor consume away her beauty and her youth in tears. No, she would live to return to the place of her defeat as a victress, and Ernest should see her yet in more perfect beauty, with a gayer spirit, and with many hearts at her command. She would be present on the day of his marriage; and she would smile so that even Célestine should

be deceived. She pictured the scene to herself, till she could hear distinctly her own words of congratulation to the bride; till her face became flushed all over, and she rose from her seat on the ground by Antonia, for whom she was mechanically building with German bricks a toy temple, and walked to and fro in high excitement, unmindful of all but the world within, careless of the eyes that watched her, unheeding of the murmur that was like a groan bursting from Aunt Kitty's anxious heart. After a few hurried turns, she took her place again by Antonia; the momentary stimulus of a proud resentment was over now, and a dull languor crept over every sense; her power was exhausted. was intolerably feeble, and she hid her face in her hands, and wept -hating her tears, hating her passionate love, hating herself. The clinging affection of the little Antonia called her for a while to a better life. With arms clasping round her the child whispered

She

'Ida, Ida! how I wish that I could do you good; do let me try, do; and tell me what it is you want.'

'You do, you shall, you must, do me good,' exclaimed Ida, returning this embrace impetuously; 'yes,