the bees had nothing more to say to him, and the singing of the forest birds was no longer understood. His heart was unspeakably sad, and he felt as if it would break with longing, when, suddenly, the long-sought form stood before him in the soft moonlight. He had never seen her; his heart, which had whispered her name to him, he did not understand, and he therefore asked her by what name he should call her. I am called Alma,' said the fair child of the sunbeam; and now he recognized the name and the sweet voice which, his whole life through, had led him over valley and mountain. He now knew that it was of Alma that wave and breeze, flower and bird, bee and butterfly, had always been whispering to him. When Alma's voice had resounded in his heart, it had taught him to understand the voice of nature, which also loved him because the daughter of the sunbeam was his friend; which for her sake had always held him fast enclosed in her arms, that he might suffer no injury in his boyish adventures, that his steps might be guided with safety when he followed from rock to rock the dangerous leaps of the timid fawn. Nature gave him power over the wild beasts of the forests, over the tall oaks, over the waves of the lake, and also, alas, over the heart of poor Margaret.

"Alma now came and went without interruption, and his heart was always with her. When she tripped over the green grass by his side, the golden star-flowers on either hand would nod their little heads to her by way of greeting. He called her his forest star, and was happy. Every evening she wandered by his side through the vaulted halls of the green forest; when night wrapped her dark mantle around both dear forms, then shone Alma's yellow straw hat like a bright meteor through the darkness, surrounding her with a halo of light wherever she went. Poor Margaret saw this every night, from the little window of her chamber, in which she no longer sought for sleep. But she wept no more, the beauteous pair were so happy; and though her heart sometimes stood still, as if it were too weary to beat any longer, of what consequence that?

was

"The vernal season had now passed away, and Alma must follow her

stern grandfather to his distant and vaporous realm; but on the last and fairest day of that lovely season she contrived to escape from him, and was concealed, by her beloved, in a cave of the dark forest.

"Resigning all her fairy power, Alma became, and loved, like a mortal maiden,-for love is the mightiest of magicians, conquering all others, and Alma's heart was his throne. Ah, those were happy days,—beauteous, golden days,-that they then passed together! Poor Margaret often thought that her heart must break for joy, the loving couple were so happy!

"Summer followed, and autumn drew on apace. The waning power of the sunbeams warned the happy pair that they would soon be obscured by the rain-cloud, as love by sorrow; but they heeded it not. Ever more seldom, ever more dimly, ever later, returned the golden rays, and ever for a shorter time. The lovers noticed it not, nor did they see the constantly increasing intenseness of the mist. At length the forest became boisterous, the sturdy oaks crashed, the tops of the tall pines bowed themselves to the ground, the primeval beeches shivered in all their branches, the earth trembled, and the mighty king came in his dark cloudcar drawn by eight white steeds. The rocks heaved to their hoof-strokes, and, far and wide, the whole land was covered with the white flakes shaken from their feet;-the lovers must part.

"Part!' commanded the angry king. He hated the youth who had won from him his grand-daughter, but he loved his own race, and would willingly have recovered and pardoned the fair child of the sunbeam. Leave him!' commanded he, and follow me to my distant realms. Obey me, or remain for ever excluded from my wide domains, to wander poor and miserable, like other mortals, upon the dusky earth;—to lose all resemblance to thy undying race; to give up thy eternal youth, thy companions, thy friends;for none of all these will follow thee into the desolate waste to which thou wilt be banished, and only one fleeting spring wilt thou be permitted to live through.'

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sigh.

And he?' asked Alma, with a

"He dies with thee!' answered the austere judge.

"And if I leave him, and go with you?' asked the trembling daughter of the sunbeam.

"Ask not!' resounded from above. "Wo, ah, wo is me!' sighed Alma. Our destiny is decided. What could the earth give to requite him for the loss of me? So break, then, thou last band that has bound me to the realms of higher beings,-I go with thee, beloved, a mortal woman. Let my doom be pronounced. Thou, ever beloved, shalt die no painful death; my kiss awoke thee to a higher life, my kiss shall lull thee to that sleep from which there will be no awaking on earth.'

"Fearfully rolled the thunder, black clouds obscured the sun, a howling storm announced to the lovers from afar the anger of the hastening king. But, once more, in unspeakable loveliness descended the spring again upon earth. When the first sunbeam announced its coming, Alma kissed her beloved, and a gentle blissful sadness filled her heart.

"Then wept poor Margaret, but not alone,-tears glistened in the eyes of every flower.

With the violets and the lily-bells, withered the life of the loving pair, as the vernal season approached its close. With its last day were they to cease to be.

"But no, no! they did not die!" cried Margaret in an elevated voice, rising with great vivacity from her seat: "no, they did not die; they are not with the dead! The people tried to make poor Margaret believe so, because they were no longer seen walking in the forest, after the storm. But Alma's pure love-offering appeased the air-spirit; her relatives, the sunbeams, interceded for the affectionate pair. Down through the storm they sent their cloud messenger, who, wrapping the lovers in his broad gold-bordered mantle, bore them upward to the realms of eternal light. Nobody will believe poor Margaret, but she often sees them there above, peacefully float ing in the ample folds of her beautiful veil, with the golden borders. When evening comes, and the sun takes leave of earth, they follow the undying light. Even now, see you not ?-there, in the west, beyond the forest, see you not Alma's gold and purple veil waving on high? See, there! there!"

Exhausted by her emotions, she

sank back upon her turf seat, but still continued pointing with her dazzlingly white trembling hand towards a little golden summer cloud which was floating just above the western horizon. At length her eyes closed as if in sleep, and we remained standing around her, in great embarrassment, not knowing what to do.

a

"Dear sister, dear Margaret !" spoke manly voice near us; and immediately a tall, good-looking person, in a hunting dress, emerged from the forest and approached us. "Poor, dear sister!" he continued, carefully endeavoring to raise the sufferer, "we ought not to let you have your own way, to wander abroad, to come here;-but who can withstand your entreaties ?— I cannot. Come, dearest Margaret, come into the house before the dew falls."

Margaret slowly opened her eyes, and, with a look of tenderness and gratitude towards her brother, she sought the assistance of his friendly arm to rise; but her strength was gone, her knees smote together, and she sank again on the turf seat. "Poor, poor sister!" sighed the forester, and then remained some time lost in thought.

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My dear young ladies," said he at length, "remain a short time with my sister, I beg of you. My house lies but a few hundred steps from here, in the wood; I will hasten for assistance, and be back again in a few moments." He instantly disappeared among the bushes, while we remained standing with folded hands near the poor invalid. Pale, but beautiful as an angel, lay she there, her beaming eyes raised to the little clouds which, with increased brilliancy, still continued floating in the heavens. We were strangely af fected with a feeling of mingled joy, sadness, and awe.

The forester now returned with two of his people, bearing a convenient, large arm-chair, into which poor Margaret was carefully raised and borne away.

Her eyes continued fixed upon the clouds; the wreath of immortals, which she had twined, was firmly clasped in her hand; but, just as she was borne into the wood, she gave us a parting look, smiled sweetly upon us, and waved the wreath as if in token of

farewell.

Sad and silent returned we towards

the house. Mother and Bridget again came to meet us at the foot of the hill. Our unusual seriousness attracted attention, and my mother inquired if anything of an unpleasant nature had occurred. I answered that poor Margaret, with whom we had been sitting, and who had related to us a most beautiful story, had been suddenly taken so ill that she was obliged to be carried home.

"I have been long thinking of suggesting to your ladyship whether it would not be better to forbid the young ladies associating so much with Miss Margaret," said Bridget. "I have taken pains to inform myself respecting the gamekeeper's people. They are honest, gentle, and mannerly-that cannot be denied; perhaps they are a little too genteel for their condition, they read much in books, yet that is too much the way of all the world now-a-days. But this Miss Margaret is not only sickly, the poor woman is not exactly in her right mind: that is the opinion of all who know her. She often speaks incomprehensibly, and she dresses so strangely that it may be seen at once that she is crazy. She may always have been as gentle and inoffensive as a lamb; but I always say that such poor disturbed beings are not to be trusted. Who can tell beforehand what she may do when suffering under an access of delirium ?"

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"Bridget, how can you talk so like the most stupid of the people?" cried I, with anger. They who express such opinions either do not know Margaret, or are not themselves in their right minds. Certainly neither of them, nor even you, Bridget, could have told so beautiful a story as Margaret did to us this evening. She is very ill; that, alas, is too true-but not crazy. So soon as we are in the house, I will repeat to my mother the story which I have this night heard from poor Margaret, and she may judge for herself: it is all fresh in my memory." My proposal was accepted, and as soon as we had, according to our usual custom, arranged ourselves around our mother's chair, I addressed myself to the fulfilment of my promise. My memory, which in my youth was somewhat remarkable, rendered me most excellent service on this occasion: not the most trifling circumstance was forgotten, and I succeeded in repeating,

almost word for word, and wholly in Margaret's manner, what I had received from her lips. My mother listened with great attention, and more than once I thought I saw tear-drops in her dear eyes. Bridget, who sat knitting in a corner, listened for a while, and then began to nod; Matilda, also, and Alexis, became sleepy, and were carried to bed; so that my mother and myself remained alone with the sleeping Bridget.

As I proceeded with the narration, my mother's tears increased to such a degree that they could no longer be concealed. This disturbed me so much that I would have discontinued the recital, but she would not suffer it. She insisted on my continuing, until I came to the place where the cloud-messenger bore the lovely pair up to heaven in his broad mantle. No more, no more!" now cried my mother, "it is enough, Francesca; stop, my child." Pressing me to her bosom, she wept long and bitterly.

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"You have narrated well, my daughter," said she at length, wiping her eyes, "nor need you be alarmed because the tale has made me weep; it has awakened in me remembrances of times and occurrences long since past, of which you yet know nothing, but of which it is now time you were informed. Margaret, however, we must visit early in the morning, for I have great reason to hope I shall find in her one of the friends of my youth. Bridget, do you remember Huber, the old gamekeeper at Lichtenhaus, and his two children, Anton and Margaret?"

Bridget, thus aroused from her slumber, picked up her knitting-work which had fallen from her lap, and after some reflection, came to the conclusion that the young gamekeeper and his sister Margaret could be no other than the children of the old gamekeeper at Lichtenhaus.

"How forgetful people do grow in their old age, to be sure," said she. "Who would have supposed that I, who was reared in the old Castle of Lichtenhaus from the day of my baptism, could have forgotten old Huber, or that I should not immediately have recognized his son Anton? Åh, my young lady Francesca, you should have seen the noble lord your grandfather's castle. That was a sight worth seeing. It stood upon the brow of the

mountain, and its windows commanded the finest views in the country for miles around. Below, from the foot of the mountain, stretched a noble and extensive forest, in which was a small hamlet, where Huber dwelt. Hundreds of times have I run down the rocky steep, to ask the gamekeeper's people for intelligence of young Theodore, when he remained out in the forest late at night. Ah, how much anxiety did he cause me in those days! He was truly a wild boy, but heavenly good and kind, and fair as an angel: and then to be taken from us so soon! But I will say no more about him, it grieves my lady."

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Heavenly good and kind, and fair as an angel," repeated my mother; yes, so was he, so was my dear brother. Nor must you think, good Bridget, that I am unwilling to hear you speak of him. I often think of him when all is still, and would not forget him if I could. I have sufficient cause to honor his memory, and for that reason will I lose no time in visiting poor Margaret; I will receive her as a sister, for dearly did she love my brother, as he, also, did her. I will do all in my power to soothe and heal her poor wounded heart, and, with God's help, to restore her wandering mind. I should long since have sought her out, had it been possible to ascertain the place of her retreat. But she is now found, and I rejoice at it from the bottom of my heart. Good night, my dear Francesca, early in the morning will we both go on our errand of love to poor Margaret."

The sun had hardly risen when I awoke my mother, on the following day. As, arm in arm, we passed down the hill, she began to communicate to me the history of my uncle Theodore, which, she said, would teach me to distinguish the real from the imaginative world, although both were more nearly related than was generally supposed.

"My father's castle, Lichtenhaus," said she, "where I was born, and where the good Bridget bore me in her arms from the first day of my existence, was very much as Bridget last evening described it to you, and Margaret, in her story, which in many respects is no fable, when she spoke of the tall house with many windows, in which the boy dwelt, could have al

Our

luded to none other than our castle. My brother was a year younger than myself, and of the same age with Margaret, the forester's daughter; her brother Anton, however, was six or seven years older, and was therefore less intimate with Theodore. father had early destined my brother to the huntsman's life, for he was himself passionately devoted to the chase and thoroughly experienced in the affairs of the forest; he moreover considered the fresh free life in the green wood, as the happiest on earth. For this reason he never left the country, as was customary with others of his rank, during any part of the year; we dwelt in winter, as in summer, at Lichtenhaus castle. My brother passed the greater part of his childhood in freely rambling about the woods, by which means the naturally delicate boy became strong and vigorous, and acquired such command and use of his limbs as was necessary for his intended profession. All times of day were alike to him, morning and evening, day and night. My father never evinced the least anxiety when he came home late, nor even when he remained out all night: he knew that all the people, far and near, loved his son, and watched to preserve him from harm. But more especially were all the children of the poor little forest hamlet attached to him, and always accompanied him in his ramblings. The gamekeeper's daughter, Margaret, followed him, in all his excursions, like his shadow, even in cases where the boldest of the boys dared not to follow, and was his favorite among them all. She was a beautiful, but singular child, and quite early distinguished herself by a certain sincerity and earnestness of character. Her judicious and intelligent father cultivated her remarkable intellectual faculties to a grade of improvement seldom met with in people of their condition; and Theodore, with proper deductions for her marvellous coloring, was very correctly described by Margaret. And I now remember that the children of the forest hamlet were in the habit of calling him the Woodbird, from his fondness for carolling forth his favorite songs from the tops of the tallest trees.

"As he became older, his way of life, indeed, took a more serious turn; he was provided with teachers, and

confined to study; he could no longer spend the whole day in wandering through the forest, as had been his wont. Margaret continued to be his favorite, but she also grew apace, and became a young maiden of singular, I may say, of affecting beauty; her whole being bore the impress of a pensive dreaminess, which imparted a deep and sad interest to her appearance, but all her former cheerfulness and gaiety had disappeared.

some

"I was now eighteen years of age, was married, and removed with your father to this, to me, wholly unknown part of the country, far from my dear relatives. I heard from them but seldom; Theodore, indeed, wrote to me from time to time,—yet much in his letters seemed singularly obscure, as if some heavy and unaccountable secret weighed upon his heart. This continued a couple of years, and at length I became extremely anxious to obtain more satisfactory information. An indescribable desire to see my relations, an inexplicable home-sickness, seized me, and threatened the prostration of my health. Under these circumstances, your good father thought it advisable to convey me to Lichtenhaus, that I might become convinced by personal observations, that all was well with my dear friends. The pleasant season was well nigh over, and winter was approaching with rapid strides, but the disquiet of my heart would not allow me to await the coming of another spring. As soon as my husband's permission was obtained, I instantly set out, totally unmindful of storm or cold.

"As might, perhaps, have been expected, I was overtaken by a storm of unusual severity, the day before my arrival at Lichtenhaus. The sturdiest trees were uprooted by its violenceit snowed and rained at the same moment-whilst the interlacing streams of lightning, which rent the heavy clouds, seemed to threaten the destruction of all created things. I was impressed with a deep conviction of approaching evil, of which I deemed this uproar of the elements an omen. How throbbed my foreboding heart when I entered the castle! Yet how different did I find everything there, from what my excited imagination had anticipated!

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My father met me with an appear

ance of unusual health and cheerfulness, Theodore's countenance beamed with heartfelt happiness, my sisters pressed around me with shouts of joy. In this loved circle of well remembered faces I also discovered another, which was to me unknown; a being of such unearthly fairness, a form so winningly delicate, a face with such an expression of heavenly purity and goodness, had never before met my gaze. Theodore led her to me, laid her to my heart, and, begging of me to receive her as a sister, named her his Amelia, his betrothed bride. I was almost overwhelmed with the happiness which pressed in upon me from every side.

"I had never before seen my brother's bride; she belonged to a family with which we had no intercourse, although their castle lay in a beautiful vale only two hours' ride from ours. Amelia's mother had received it as a present from the Crown Prince at the time of his marriage. Amelia was the daughter of the Prince, and much evil was spoken of her mother's manner of life, so that all reputable people scrupulously avoided visiting at her house.

"The daughter, who possessed a noble nature, suffered sadly for her mother's errors. She grieved that she could not honor her with that filial respect which a child's heart so willingly pays. As she grew up, she found herself compelled to withdraw from the society which usually frequented her mother's house, and at length took refuge in a distant wing of the building, where she lived in the deepest solitude. Sad and solitary walks in the adjacent forest, were her daily and only recreation. There had she and Theodore encountered each other, and from that time hardly a day passed in which they did not meet. No one knew the secret of these meetings but poor Margaret, and she kept it sacredly confined to her own breast; yet what her feelings were, can be known only to God, who counted her tears.

"My poor brother was not answerable for those tears. Entertaining for her, from first to last, the purest and tenderest fraternal regard, he never suspected the nature of her feelings towards him. But it was a very different love that he entertained for his Amelia-he loved her as his eyes, as