led it back to those lamented days. A consciousness of the present confused and marred the image of the past, and she stood still and listless in a sad abstraction; but the teacher drew near, and it became necessary to rouse herself.

"Those portraits, madam,' said the lady, still speaking German, 'are most dear to us, though not first-rate likenesses. We have indeed much reason to love them, for the Count Ernest Wertheim and the Countess Rosenberg are the generous patrons of our little school, indeed I may say of our whole village. They are so kind and benevolent, so just too. They give up much time and thought to us; and the Count is so good, so very good, that he never forgets us; an admirable young man, oh! he is surely the best of men.'

Ida looked very attentively at the portraits on the wall, while the teacher was speaking; but presently gathering up her courage with a resolute effort, she turned and faced her, and calmly asked

"What, then, is the name of this village?'

'Gernsdorf.'

Gernsdorf how many faded thoughts revived in Ida's mind at the name. It brought back the time of Ernest's absence from Badheim, when scandal had occupied its busy tongue about him, when she had so often, and perhaps so indiscreetly, risen up in his defence; when Gernsdorf, his school, his reforming movement, and a veiled lady had been so frequently the subjects of comment; and now she was struck with the pale, wasted beauty of the face she looked at, for the bonnet and veil that had been worn outside the house, were laid down. This, then, was the teacher of the school of Gernsdorf. The village was the property of the Graf; the school had been built by Ernest, and here stood before her that veiled lady with whom he was said to hold long private conferences, and who was a subject of suspicion to his father. This fair, delicate woman, with manners so modest, so gentle, and engaging. The teacher felt that Ida's look was

fixed upon her, and she blushed. Ida had never, as before told, given any serious belief to the rumours that vice and idleness had set afloat concerning this lady's relation to Ernest Wertheim, and her manner and countenance were calculated to remove any unfavourable impression, if even such had before existed. But yet it was impossible not to feel a great curiosity as to her history. It seemed that there was some kind of mystery attached to her, and her speech was certainly not that of a German. Ida resolved that she would find out the secret.

'Pray excuse me,' said she, 'if I seem impertinent, but I have heard of you before. I have heard that you are a great musician; and I am so very fond of music myself, that I have a natural sympathy with anybody who is distinguished in that way. It strikes me that your accent and your look are not quite German, will you tell me if I am right in supposing you to be an Englishwoman?

'I am an Englishwoman,' replied the teacher, speaking English now, but she spoke briefly, with evident reluctance, and with an agitation that sought to hide itself, turned away immediately to occupy herself with one of the children.

Ida's interest grew stronger, and she was bent on renewing her investigations, but she was interrupted by Antonia, who hastily finishing a last mouthful of bread, now ran to her with great eagerness, as the possessor of important

news.

'Ida, Ida, what do you think? This is Count Ernest's birthday; he has been here this morning giving prizes to the children, and he is actually in the village now.'

Ida started at the intelligence; her excitement could not be concealed; her colour rose and fell; her footing seemed insecure, and she sat down on a bench and tried to find composure. The teacher observed her silently, and presently approaching her, said,

If you can wait here, madam, for a quarter of an hour, you will see Count Ernest; he is gone) to

1861.]

visit a poor blind woman in whom he takes great interest, but before he leaves our village he is coming back to hear the children sing our favourite hymn.'

Ida rose abruptly from her seat. "Thank you,' said she, in a hurried manner; 'no, I have stayed here too long, much too long as it is. Antonia, quick, we have not a moment to lose. Quick, my child, quick. Oh, never mind your hatstrings.'

'But I must, Ida. I have got a knot.'

'Never mind the knot, I tell you we have no time to lose; it is late, it is late.'

Antonia ran to mount her pony, her gloves half on, and her hat so tightly fastened under her chin that it hurt her. The teacher followed her, smiling as she untied the knot for her, and seated her comfortably in her saddle. Ida, meanwhile, had with great haste mounted Thekla, yet only just in time to escape, for a cry from the school children of Count Ernest, Count Ernest,' now made itself heard.

'Here he is,' said the teacher.

And Thekla was surprised by a touch of the whip much sharper than she was accustomed to. Ida was galloping fast away from him whom not many weeks back she would have gone so fast to meet, when Ernest reached the door of the school house; but the little Antonia, still troubled with some of her equipments, was not quite ready, and at the sight of the Count, with the natural impulse of a child's affection, she waved her little hand to greet him.

He recognised the two figures with the utmost astonishment. He was moved to a high degree; he ran to Antonia, caught her in his arms, and pressed her to him, speaking many words of endearment with a passionate and indistinct eagerness.

'But let me go,' the child exclaimed, let me go, Count Ernest, dear Ernest; see, Ida is getting on so far away. Oh, I shall be left behind, I shall be left behind. Do whip the pony for me and make it

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go on, quick, quick; Ida is always in such a hurry now. I know she will never wait, she never does.'

Ernest pressed one more kiss upon the child's pretty, pouting lips, once more strained her against his heart, and then complied with her request. The pony exerted his powers with a new energy at the well-known touch, and as Ida meanwhile slackened her speed, Antonia was soon by her side. While she drew up close to her, Ida, with an involuntary movement looked back, and there she saw the man whom her heart could recognise at any distance, though all details of form were indistinct, standing still by the acacia tree outside the school porch, his hand uplifted to his brow, shading his eyes from the sun's strong light, and looking after her. Was it because he saw her movement that he now turned away and went back into the school-room?

'Ida,' said Antonia, 'why did you not stay to speak to Count Ernest? I am sure he wanted to speak to you, and you might have waited just one minute, you know.'

'But I had no wish at all to speak to Count Ernest,' said Ida, in failing tones.

'No wish at all-why not? He is so good; and I know you told me once that I-ought to know how very good he was; that I ought to like him so much better than Captain Warburton; that I ought to love him very dearly, you said, because Reginald had loved him so much.'

Poor Ida! When she turned her back on Ernest she felt strong and brave; but now that he was quite gone her spirit began to give way. It was hard to turn from him so, and he might have had something to say to her. How the teacher had praised him. But it was no wonder, for who else had qualities like his? The child, her sister, recalled to her her own great exclusive love as it had once been; and now, when they were divided, when it would be best to forget it, all those childish comments were galling and irritating to her, and she averted her face and rode on

fast. But when they halted at a stream that crossed their path, Antonia began again.

'What is the matter, Ida, have I made you angry? You have not spoken a word to me, and you have kept on looking away from me all this time.'

Ida turned and looked her full in the face, and then Antonia saw an expression which, child as she was, struck her to the heart, and in accents painful as her countenance, her sister spoke,—

'Well then, Antonia, why do you speak to me of Reginald? Do you not know it is more than I can bear?'

In this reply Ida was seeking a screen for her true feelings, designed perhaps as much for herself as for Antonia, hoping in a manner to mask the inner emotion even from her own penetration. Antonia received it with the simplicity of nine years old.

'Oh, Ida, I did not know. I am very sorry-so sorry; but I am sure you used to speak of him yourself often.'

'Yes, I know I used; but we are not always the same. We cannot always have the same courage. I am not so strong now, and I cannot. You know, Antonia, he was everything to me. We were so near in age. We had all our lessons together and all our play. We were never apart except when he was at school, and once for a few months abroad. He never could think anything that I did wrong, he took such care of me. He seemed so proud of me; and he used to say— do you not remember, Antonia? -he used to say he never should marry till he found a woman like me. No one else no one elseoh, no, no, no-no one else has ever cared for me as he did, and I shall never see him again-never in this life. Life is too long, Antonia. Oh, I think life is much too long.'

The little girl was frightened. She did not understand; she was awed by her sister's emotion, and she remained still and dumb till the convulsion of her tears subsided, when they resumed their ride without any further con

versation. Yet every minute was full to Ida's mind: thought packed on thought, pain pressed on pain, the sound of many voices in her ears, changing scenes, varied dialogues, the future imagined and feared, the past as it was and as it might have been-these things alternately rose and sank before her senses, not dimly, dizzily, or vaguely, but with a piercing distinctness, each figure vivid, each sound clear, pictured as strongly as in a fervent dream of the night, and as completely deluding the senses, until a movement of her horse breaking the monotony of his trot a stumble over a stone in the road-startled her from this deep abstraction, and she looked round, and then perceived that the scene through which she moved held no just relation with the images of her mind. Thus the vision was broken and that multitudinous society was dispersed, leaving behind as its echo only one tone of disappointment and distress.

Evening was coming on, and the unfriendly dusk strode over the plains; the fair country faded, the green woods disappeared in a dark horror, the bright river rolled away in dismal mist at his approach, the warm air grew moist and cold, shivering at his embrace, but Ida was hardly conscious of a change in nature, which seemed merely the reflection of her own sensations. The growing dimness and vagueness of the objects about her, the vastness and the solitude, the gradual emptying of the scene, made the more room for her own thought, and she loved it. But the little Antonia felt afraid, and coming up very close, whispered,

'Ida, Ida, are we far from home? 'No, not very. Hark! do you hear that clock striking? It is the tower-clock of Wertheimburg.'

'Shall we soon be there?'

'Yes, soon. See, Antonia-look where the moon is coming up behind that heavy cloud. We must ride on fast, my darling. I did not mean to be so late. I did not mean to go so far. I never meant to go to Gernsdorf.'

It was true that Ida had merely intended to explore some of the country between Wertheimburg and Badheim. She had heard of Gernsdorf as in the neighbourhood of Wertheimburg, but she had not before identified its position.

When Wertheimburg was reached at length, and their horses' hoofs sounded again through that ancient paved court, Ida whispered to Antonia,

'Do not speak at all to anybody here of Count Ernest. I will tell you why another time.'

And Antonia nodded her head in token of obedience.

Karl, Wertheim's steward, had come out to meet them. Eugenie, their own faithful old servant, was by his side. There was serious apprehension in the household, and Aunt Kitty stood in the archway, watching. Ida quickly dismounted

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and threw herself into her arms. Her heart smote her now, when she saw that anxious face.

'You are safe, then? said Miss Conway, with a sigh of relief, and she was speedily employed in making everything comfortable, and much more lavish of caresses than of reproaches, for the season of severity had been both sterile and short with her, and soft indulgence had resumed its course.

Ida was thought to look pale and overtasked, and was advised, timidly advised, to retire early to bed. The advice was ostensibly adopted; but while the unhappy child was supposed to be asleep, she was, with a hot parched hand, writing to Dorothea-writing counsel, exhortation, entreaty, fervently and lovingly. It was a long letter, and night was far advanced before it was finished; but after its completion Ida slept soundly.

VOL. LXIII. NO. CCCLXXIV.

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