ter-loving, frank blue eyes, glancing roguishly up at him from their covert of sweeping lashes. So bewitchingly pretty, that he sighed a halfimpatient sigh as he came to her side and took both her hands in his. "After that," he said, "will it, indeed, be my Gretchen who comes back to me? I could almost find it in my heart to lose some of her beauty, lest it make for her some grand and brilliant marriage in the gay world, and she forget her promise to me. Six long months!" Six long, long months! And, as if they were not long enough, not full of fears enough, to one at least of the dwellers in that ancient Munich street, the trial-time stretched out into the seventh, and still no sign of Gretchen. Her friends there had not expected any word of her during those six months. The old Fraulein von Hardenberg had stipulated that there should be no intercourse whatever while her niece remained with her. Gretchen had at first rebelled, had declared she would not go. But good Cousin Haune urged the visit on her, firm in the conviction that Gretchen's eyes would not become so dazzled by the splendors of rank and wealth that they would no longer see the little dark quaint street and old associates there. Max himself had given his consent, and even advice after a fashion, to her departure, for he thought it not right to bind her to the life which was before him, till she should know something of that which her aunt offered her. He, too, had trusted that she would return. But Cinderella hardly liked the cindery hearthstone so well, after treading tesselated ball-room floors. And so seven months had gone by. To-night was near the close of the carnival, and all the Munich world, both great and small, improved the final opportunities for merriment and frolic before Lent. Crowds of people of all ranks were to be seen thronging into the public building where was given the great artists' masked ball. Among them was Max von Edelstern. He had in all this while caught but a distant glimpse, at intervals, of Gretchen; but to-night he knew she would be likely to be here, as were the Court and any number of distinguished personages. sels of rank were unmasked, and among these Max, after a time, recognized Gretchen. He, too, wore no mask; but, as the evening de manded something of his dress, he merely ap peared as a medieval painter. The plain black velvet costume threw the fair-haired, wellshaped head into fine relief, and more than one turned to look approvingly as he made his way from the crowded doorway. Gretchen-was that Gretchen ?-that golden mantled Hebe all aglow with ruby drops that trickled as it were from the spilt cup which Ganymede gave up to her? She was leaning on the arm of a distinguished-looking man, who was bending towards her in a manner so devoted that involuntarily Von Edelstern stopped short, and a foreboding came over him. As he stood there with compressed lip, and breath coming hard and fast, he heard the low-toned conversation of two men quite close behind him. "The most heavenly beautiful girl of the season, one was saying, "the Fraulein Von Hardenberg." "De Rubigny is led away captive, that is sun-clear." "Ach so! And the lady aunt is set upon the betrothal, which in consequence is to come off in due form presently. A rich owl-a good fellow, too-one can right heartily wish him gluck zu!” Von Edelstern had imagined he was prepared for some such tidings by her silence during the last month. But by the shock, which fell upon him with a stunning power, he knew now how great his hope had been. It was some moments before he could collect his thoughts, and then he turned to quit the scene of gayety, which did not jar upon him only because he was but half conscious of it, so wholly was he absorbed in looking upon Gretchen for the last time. She was hardly changed. The same fresh charm of coloring and rounded suppleness, the same graceful leaning on her lover's arm, and shy, sweet flush and half-lifted lashes, which had once been so familiar to this other lover. He set his teeth together in impotent fury, and moved away. At that very instant she moved too. Their eyes met; he saw her color flee away, her glance, first startled, change into an imploring, haggard, shrinking gaze. She was afraid, he said to himself, that he might stand forward between her and the brilliant future in this hour of her triumph. He turned upon his heel and made his way forthwith to the entrance. What a blaze of gorgeous decoration was the ball-room!-gold and white and rose festoons -a fairy bower rising in the centre, and gay groups of dancers and of masquers on the floor; while from the galleries gazed eager faces down upon the merriment. Graceful fancy-dress and wild burlesque, the Arab and But he could not cross that threshold. He the Lurlei, troubadour and Valkyriur, side by must see her, nay, must speak to her once side with owls' heads and with eagles' beaks more. He waited, watching her unseen. How strutting about upon two legs invisible among more than gay she seemed, and how she led all the crowd, as if they were bent on illustrating in her train, from all the Niebelungen heroes the ancient Greek assertion that man is but a even to the sons of the desert! If her lightfeatherless biped. ness were but forced-if it were impossible for But many among the gentle dames and dam- sich a meeting not to leave its trace in any wise who offered his arm, saying that he had been seeking her everywhere. upon her spirits-Max von Edelstern never doubted that his quitting her had left her lighter hearted than before. She shivered as he spoke to her, and did not But De Rubigny could not of course linger take his arm. "I must go away," she said; near her like her shadow the whole evening│"I-I amn hardly well. If you would tell my long. She had been dancing with another aunt," and she sank upon a seat which some partner, who led her to an alcoved seat just one in the crowd gave her hastily. as Von Edelstern came forward. She was wonderfully composed, although she started, certainly, when he greeted Fraulein von Hardenberg much as any ordinary acquaintance might have done. Her late partner bowed and left her, and, with a trembling hand, she swept aside the folds of her dress to make room for Max upon the divan beside her. But he did not take the mutely-offered place. He stood before her so that she was screened from any save himself, while the trailing ivy boughs drooped around them both. There was a silence which seemed very long to each, and then he broke it quietly. "Do not fear that I have come to stand between you and your brilliant lot. I have but brought the wedding gift a little sooner, that is all. See," and he laid upon her hands, that clasped and unclasped themselves upon her knee, her parting gift, a tress which he had kept since the evening she gave it to him. "I hold you to the past not even by that slight link now," he said. And as the soft curl caught a ray of light and gleamed like gold, he added, bitterly, “It is the golden glitter that you love, and that I lacked." Gretchen lifted her head suddenly, flushing, and her lips quivering as she strove to speak. He said more gently : "Ach ja wohl! I should have known what a reed is this love to lean upon. Who would have knowledge must earn it. Rest tranquil, thou little one, it is all over now." Gretchen's face was hidden in her hands. "It is all over now." He said it, and his words were echoed in her heart. How little it cost him to put it all away as over! If he had upbraided her—if he had only held her to her promised faith, uttered but one word of regret she could have cried out for forgiveness, could have prayed him to take her back into that past from which he thrust her now without an effort, as she thought. "Rest tranquil," he had said-so tranquilly that she dared utter none of the wild, penitent beseechings swelling like voiceless sobs in her throat. And so she did not stir, and heard his steps go from her, till they mingled in the crowd. She started up then, gazing after him. He never turned, but passed on down the hall and through the door-erect, and with his old firm and yet careless gait, she thought. She did not see his face. The glare of light and color around her seemed to blind her reeling senses. She almost staggered forward, and brushed suddenly against some one, who turned with an exclamation of delight. It was M. De Rubigny, The old fraulein was not too well pleased by the summons. She did not at all approve of any sort of weakness, though she was by no means so watchful as she would have been had she known the cause of this. And her annoyance disappeared when, as De Rubigny put Gretchen into the carriage, she heard the young girl say quietly that she hoped to see him in the morning. It was so different from Margarethe's way-hers had been so passive an acquiescence in the arrangements of the aunt and the lover-that the old lady was elated, and quite petted her Margarethe, and made much of her indisposition, to a degree that was distressing to the poor girl, who sorely longed. for quiet. She did not leave her room the next morning until M. De Rubigny's arrival. Her manner was composed, but her face ashen in its pallor as she entered the drawing-room. He came forward eagerly, and took her hand, but she checked him with a gesture when he would have raised it to his lips. "I dare hardly look you in the face," she said, hoarsely, “I have so shamefully deceived you." "Margarethe! You!" "If you would listen to my story!” He led her gravely to a sofa and drew a chair before her, leaning with his elbow on a table. Gradually, while she spoke unfalteringly, though with strange, set tones, she saw his posture change, till presently he leaned there, his head bowed, his eyes shaded by his hand. It was harder then for her to continue. She had before been thinking chiefly of herself, and of Max's love which she had flung away, and did not hope to gain, even with the worldly sacrifice which she was making. She was thinking of her folly in once dreaming that the dazzle of the world could fill the void left by that love. But now-could it indeed be that this man had loved her no less truly, and she had so wronged him, too? Her voice choked, and she could not go on. Her story was all told, but she had thought to speak a few set, penitential phrases-wishes for his happiness, assurances that many a fitter maiden would consent to be his bride. How paltry all such speeches now! They failed her, and she stopped short. He drew away his hand slowly then, and looked at her. That long, wistful look said all that his eager words could, as he came and stood before her, pleading as if for life and death. But she dared not yield. It was her weakness and her indecision before which had so nearly ruined him and herself. It is an old, old ruin-the Schloss von Edelstern-such a crumbling, scattered ruin, that the single massive, square gray tower which remains, stands there like a gaunt monument to mark dead ages. It is graven by the finger of Time-lettered with dull gray lichens, and scrawled over with dark ivy, which, instead of noting down the virtues and the glories of the past, like other monuments, but chronicle decay. The castle was once the stronghold of its Tyrol height; but now, as if its dwellers dreamed there should be no more war, a modern mansion stood out half before the tower, as if it had no need of it. And yet war lately had been sweeping to and fro like a vast, destroying wave, in the vicinity. The French and Bavarian army, having captured Salzburg, had advanced upon the Tyrol. The peasants of the mountains had opposed an undaunted front, had been victorious more than once; yet now their victory was snatched from them for a time, and their great Valley of the Inn occupied by the enemy. In view of all this, the present might seem an untoward season for festivity-and yet there was a ball to-night at ⚫ Castle Edelstern. A ball at which French and Bavarian officers were to be most honored guests. The Frau Gräfinn von Edelstern, young widow of the old count, who had now been dead two or three years, had never loved her husband's country, and remained in it only because her means were too slender to permit her to take the stand she would have wished in her native city, the Bavarian capital. Therefore, when prudence bade her conciliate the powerful invaders, she had few Tyrolese sympathies to oppose themselves to such a policy. And so there was to be a grand ball in the castle. It was evening now at last, and, as horseman after horseman dashed up, out from the old turret-casement down into the court-yard, eager, bright-blue eyes were peering, and a girlish figure leaned as far out as she could, still keeping in the shelter of the curtaining ivy-boughs-a girlishly rounded figure, and a rosy dimpled face, which could belong to none other than to Gretchen von Hardenberg-a rosier, blither face than that on which the lights of the great Munich artists' ball had streamed. There was a something in the smile around the rosebud mouth which recalled the childish days and the feather dustbrush of the old narrow Munich streets, quite as much as did the dress of a Tyrolean peasant, which she again was wearing. Yes, Gretchen was once more a little peasant-maiden. The fairy godmother of the pumpkin coach, finding that her Cinderella would not marry the prince-i. e., De Rubigny-sent her back to her cinders. But Gretchen did not find Max waiting on the homely hearth for her. He had left Munich on the very night of their parting at the ball; and she, after lingering a brief while in the old home, had gone back to her older home in the Tyrol, and thence, moved by an unacknowledged hope of hearing tidings of Max, had entered his aunt's household as something between maid and companion. Time passed, however, and that hope was still a hope, when, this morning, the Frau Gräfinn sent for her to her boudoir, where * piles of acceptances and refusals for the ball, together with a letter or two which had found the way from Innspruck, were strewn together on the table. The lady, glancing up from her French novel, begged Gretchen to open them, and tell her if every one were coming. Gretchen obeyed. At last she broke the seal of a letter which she supposed related to the tiresome ball; but the very beginning proved her mistake, at the same time so startling her that her eyes never moved from the page until they reached the signature. That signature "Max von Edelstern." was He wrote to say that he was on his way to Hofer's army, as every true Tyrolese should be, and that he diverged from the direct path from the wish to ascertain that the invaders had not molested her, and from the hope of rendering any service in his power. He added that, as many years stretched between him and his recollections of Tyrol topography beyond the castle, he would be glad if she could further him with a guide or fellow-traveller. His letter would reach the castle by a sure hand, and he would follow at a late hour in the evening, so he ended. And so Gretchen would see him again at last! That thought made her forgetful of his danger for a time. When she remembered, it was not to despair, but to resolve to save him. He must never enter the castle, that was clear. She glanced at the countess, and felt justified in withholding the letter, since its rightful owner would hardly be able to keep his secret, nor would be at pains to contrive his escape. It must devolve on Gretchen, then. Not all her anxiety could weigh her spirits down as she told herself triumphantly that his safety must be brought about by her. So soon as their guests were safe within, she would steal forth, would lie in wait at the foot of the road up the cliff, the only ascent to the castle. There she could not fail to meet him; then would herself guide him through the mountain paths,she knew so well, until he should be safe upon the road to Hofer. At first she had intended to disclose herself, or rather let him recognize her, as he could not fail to do, unless she were at pains that he should not. But, as the time drew near, her heart failed her, and her pride, too, shrank from putting herself forward as his deliverer, and so in a manner making a demand upon his gratitude. Therefore, when the ball-room was at last filled, and lights and music there made the night gay, it was an unrecognizable Tyrolese maiden who flitted by, her broad hat tied down close beneath her chin, in such wise as to leave so little of the face exposed to view that in the dimness of a merely starlight night she well might pass unknown. She had counted upon being able to borrow a horse from the stables, but a brief reconnoitering convinced her that such reckoning was quite mistaken. A group of soldiers lounged there; and, besides that delay would probably be vain, it would certainly be more than hazardous to Max. There was, then, but one way of aiding him. He must let her ride behind him on his own horse. She made her way with all possible speed compatible with stealth from the court-yard. On she wended, the shades meantime waxing blacker and blacker, the forest closing grimmer, the faint light through the openings dying out upon the fallen withered pine-tags which sent up an odorous yet mournful breath beneath her flying footsteps. Thus she wended, till an abrupt turn in the overgrown pathway brought her full upon a solitary horseman. She had been too eager on her errand to dwell upon her own position, and the task before her of explaining to him. But, as out of breath she reached the turn, it was not breathlessness alone which impeded her utterance. She stood still, directly in his path, pressing her clasped hands together, and striving collect herself. by. The way was hazardous from time to time-no road, but mere sheep-walks, to be thridded only by those to the mountain born. Steeply beneath their feet, the ground shelved down in naked precipices to some black and jagged pool, from the vicinity of which the very pines staggered back, retreating up be yond dank crags on the farther side, in straggling groups traced branch by branch against the gray-blue starlit sky. But Gretchen was a true mountain-maid, the gallant horse surefooted, and Max willing to be led. The miles went by too rapidly for more than a word here and there, and those of Gretchen were mere monosyllabic replies. She was making no demand upon his gratitude, in very truth. He evidently believed her some herd-maiden, not sorry for a lift to her home. Surely, this was as she would have it; and yet, as her journey's end drew near, and the glad sense of his presence lost its comfort in the nearness of parting, she felt with a pang beyond all moan that he would go his way and hardly think of her again, nor ever know what she had given up for his sake. At last she forced herself to say that she would leave him now; he was quite out of peril, and must follow this bridlepath until it led him forward to the main road, where he soon would find some one to direct him to the Tyrolese camp. "The Tyrolese camp? And so thou altotogether knowest my destination, maiden? Art thou, then, for Hofer, too?" He had not at once observed her, for he was riding absently along, and the shade was densest bere. When he did observe, he attempted to pass silently; but, quick as thought, she caught his bridle. A few words, carefully spoken in a tone not her own, sufficed to stay him. "Surely, maiden,” he said, looking at her more attentively, "thou art not the guide sent by the countess?" "I am the guide, mein Herr"-she answered, faintly. "With all my Tyrolean heart," she said. He detached the gold chain from his watch, and flung it over her neck. "Wear this, then, for me, thou brave one," he said, “until I come again to redeem it with the purse of gold I owe for thy kind service." Gretchen affected all a peasant's admiration for the gift, but more by gestures than by words, because she hardly dared to trust her voice; and then she sprang away from him, and was soon lost among the crags. Time passed. There was a lull of peace "But is it altogether safe for thee? And throughout the Tyrol, and French and Bava dost thou know the mountain-roads?" rian troops were there no more. It was the close of a fair summer day. The mountainside was glowing in its glory, and in that sunset light a pasture-alp perched like a high was there among her herds, which flocked together for the milking at the green-thatched hut. In its narrow door another herd-maiden was standing, shading her eyes with her broad hat from the dazzling rays, while she loitered for an idle moment before going forward to assist her cousin with the kine. In the Tyrolese accent, she soon convinced him that she ought to be familiar with these roads, and that there was no fear for her; for, when she should have guided him beyond dan-green bough brushing the sky. A Sennerinn ger, she would be quite near the Senne hut, on a friend's pasture-alp, where she would find shelter. She omitted to say that this Senne hut was occupied but for a few weeks in the midst of summer, when the herd was led up there for pasture, and that it was now deserted. And, owing to that omission, she found herself presently mouuted behind him, where she kept her place both gracefully and easily, and only now and then, at some sudden leap of the horse, steadied herself by a lithe hand on Von Edelstern's arm. While she is loitering still, she sees that some one clambers up the crag, for the sun sets behind, and throws the shadow foremost up the grassy slope. She watches indifferently. Gretchen, in all these long days of her peasant And so the trees, and rocks, and cliffs went life, has had "No bliss draw nigh to her, That she should run to greet;" and she seldom cared to turn her head to watch a comer whomsoever. So she was leaning carelessly in the low doorway, gazing absently before her, and the new comer passed on where Lotta stooped among her cattle. He was speaking to her now, his voice reached her, and Gretchen, starting up, leaned forward breathlessly. A tall, broad figure, bending slightly towards the Sennerinn as he rested his arm on the neck of the animal she was milking. Gretchen caught Lotta's answer to some question he must have put. "Ci, thou, dear Heaven, saved your life, mein Herr? Not I, most certainly. Who knows? it might be that you mean my cousin -my cousin, yonder in the doorway." So the time was come. Coward Gretchen almost wished she could escape it, almost wished she did not wear that gold chain upon her bodice as a clue. But it was too late. She could only lean against the doorway for support, only still uphold the hat half shadowing her face. Below it, on her bosom, glittered Max's chain. It was that which caught his attention as he came and paused before her. "And so I find thee at last, maiden," he began. But Gretchen slowly dropped her hand, and the hat in it. Max started back. He grew very pale, and his lips moved once or twice before he spoke. "Gretchen, is it thou? thou, playing thus at peasant life? In Heaven's name, why are you here, Madame de Ru❞— gifts more graciously, but evidently expect a due acknowledgment; they have the air of requiring "so much for so much,” and their undisguised demand for a full measure of thanks often annihilates the very existence of grati tude. You see, at a glance, that they are laying out their kind deeds at usury, and hope for a good income of reward; perhaps in the shape of a wide reputation for goodness, perhaps from the return of some greater benefit than the one conferred, perhaps through the gratification of assuming an air of superiority in the character of benefactor. The kindness of another order of temperaments is impulsive, whimsical, and spasmodical, the effervescing exuberance of a pleasant state of mind-a transient excitement which quickly exhausts itself. Wearied of well-doing, these uncertain friends soon exclaim, "I've done enough!" Enough! as if a poor, feeble mortal, though he use his best energies for the promotion of his neighbor's welfare, can ever arrive at a period when, through the greatness of his deeds, he may fold his hands and say "I've done enough!" There is an old proverb which warns us that the last person from whom we should expect to receive a favor is the one upon whom we have liberally bestowed favors. And it is not unusual for persons to experience a posi tive aversion towards those who have done them great services-an aversion they struggle against, they are ashamed of, they despise themselves for entertaining, and yet are ever keenly conscious of feeling. Is not this very often the consequence of the manner in which "No, no, not that name," she interrupted, the services have been rendered? Nothing so faintly. "It is not mine." He caught her hands, and held them fast in his. Standing above him on the doorstep as she did, although her lashes drooped, she could not evade his eager, questioning gaze. But she did not answer it. Just then a slanting sunbeam flashed that way. Max again marked the glitter of that golden clue. He followed it up at once. "Gretchen-Herzensliebe-who was my guide that wild night through the mountains!" KINDNESS. BY L. C. A. S. To do a kindness kindly-to confer a favor with such tact and delicacy that the recipient will not be oppressed by a sense of obligation, is an art. Wherefore is it one so little cultivated by the kind spirits of this world? There are persons who are quick to execute praiseworthy actions, who take pleasure in works of beneficence, yet who always perform them in a hard, cold way, as though impelled by the promptings of compulsive duty alone. Individuals of another class bestow their good thoroughly destroys the beauty of an act of kindness as the desire for, or even the expectation of, gratitude. And yet nothing is more common. The poet Rogers tells us that "to bless is to be blest ;" and true kindness instinctively communicates to those whom we are permitted to benefit a consciousness of the happiness we ourselves derive from the power of benefaction placed in our unworthy hands-makes them sensible of the blessedness which springs from that power's exercise, reveals to them the in debtedness we cherish towards those who are the recipients of its use. Cant, in the spirit of veritable charity, declares that the way to love our neighbor is to do good to him first and we shall love him after as the consequence of having done good to him. When kindness is genuine in the soul, when it strikes deep roots and is nourished by a holy source, there is always an increased sense of affection experienced towards those who have needed and received kindnesses at our hands. Effectual, widely-extended kindness does not alone consist in the performance of tangible and undeniable services to others. Kind looks and words and gentle, kindly ways may be of |