solemn asseveration:—

"This tree shall never be cut down; it shall never be felled by me till our wedding; or rather, it shall always remain where it is, and listen to the merry music of our bridal procession as it passes along. Martina, give me something; have you nothing you could give me?"

"I am poor and have nothing to give away."

"I see something I should like to have—will you give it to me?"

"Yes! what is it? whatever you like."

"I see your name embroidered on your neckerchief; tear out the piece and give it to me."

"Gladly!" she turned away, and tore out the piece of muslin where her name was marked, and gave it to him.

"I give you nothing," said he, "but look round, so far as you can see, all, all, is yours."

At this speech, proving how rich Adam was, and how poor Martina, she felt very sorrowful, but Adam still grasped her hand, so every other feeling was absorbed in love for him.

The love which had taken possession of both, was an overpowering, headlong, wild passion and quickly succeeded by grief and misery.

For the first time in his life, Adam was sent with a raft, down the Rhine, to Holland, and during his absence Martina was driven out of the house in shame and disgrace....

These were the joyous and sorrowful events of the past, that once more floated before the eyes of Martina in her garret.

She hid her face in the pillow—the cocks in the village began to crow, as it was now past midnight.

"That is the new-fashioned bird crowing, that Häspele lately bought. How hoarse and loud the long-legged creature crows! Our own home birds have a much more cheerful cry: but Häspele is an excellent man, and so kind and good to my boy;—he meant to do me a kindness when he once said to me, 'Martina, in my eyes you are a widow, and a worthy woman'—Yes, said I, but my husband is not dead; I grieve that you like me, as I cannot marry you—no! such a thought is far from my heart."

Martina could not close her eyes, but lay anxiously awaiting the dawn of day—sometimes sleep seemed about to take compassion on her, but scarcely had she closed her eyes, than she started up again—she thought she heard the voice of Adam's mother, the stormy Röttmännin, and saw her sharp sarcastic face, and Martina whispered sadly to herself:—"Oh! when will it be light!"

CHAPTER II.

A DUET INTERRUPTED, AND RESUMED.

At the very same hour that the child in the attic woke up and was so restless, two candles and a lamp were burning in the sitting-room of the parsonage, and three people were seated comfortably at a round table: these were the clergyman, his wife, and her brother, a young farmer. The room was pleasantly warm, and in the pauses of the conversation, the hissing of some apples roasting on the stove was heard, and the kettle, on the top of the stove, put in its word too, as if it wished to say that it had good material ready for a glass of hot punch. The worthy pastor, who seldom smoked, nevertheless possessed the talent of enjoying his pipe with any guest who arrived; this did not, however, make him neglect his snuff-box, and whenever he took a pinch himself, he offered one to his brother-in-law, who invariably refused it politely. The pastor gazed with evident satisfaction at his brother-in-law; and his wife occasionally looked up from her work—a gift to her husband for the Christmas of the ensuing day—and glanced tenderly at her brother.

"A famous idea of yours," repeated the pastor, while his delicate face, his well formed lips, bright blue eyes, and lofty intellectual forehead, assumed an expression of even greater benevolence than usual—"a famous idea indeed, to get leave of absence to spend the holidays with us, but," added he, smiling and glancing at the gun leaning against the wall in a corner, "your fire-arms will not profit you much here, unless, indeed, you have the good fortune to hit the wolf, who has been lately seen prowling about in the wood."

"I have neither come to visit you solely from the wish to see you, nor with the idea of sport," answered the young farmer, in a deep and manly voice, "my chief motive is to persuade you, my dear brother-in-law, to withdraw your application for the pastorate in the Odenwald, and to delay moving until there is a vacant Cure either near the capital, or in it. My uncle Zettler, who is now Consistorial President, has promised to secure the first vacant charge for you."

"Impossible! Both Lina and I should certainly have liked to be in the vicinity of our parents, and I have often an eager thirst for good music, but I am a bad hand at the new orthodoxy of the day, and the eager discussions as to whether a sermon is according to strict church principles. Among my fellow-workers in the Church, there is an incessant feverish anxiety for the souls of their mutual parishioners, inducing them to exchange religious exhortations, which appears to me a very vainglorious system. It is with that, like education; the less teaching parents bestow on their children, the more incessantly they talk on the subject. Live a good life, and a pious one, and you can train up both your children and your parishioners, without possessing much learning, and without such endless wear and tear of care and anxiety. I know that I teach a pure faith so far as my ability goes, and moreover, I am averse to all innovations. We must grow old along with those on whom we wish to impress our doctrines. In a well organized government, a man remains in the same situation, but is gradually promoted in his office. I only applied for the vacant Cure in the Odenwald because I feel that I am becoming too old for the dissensions and strife which prevail here, and also because I have not the power to prevent a piece of cruelty at which my heart revolts—but now, let us sing."

He rose, went to the piano, and began the symphony of his favourite melody, and his wife and her young brother sang, with well taught voices, the duet from Titus—"Joy and sorrow let us share."

The two voices, blending harmoniously in this impressive melody, were like friendly hands clasped, or a cordial embrace.

While they were singing, a sound like the cracking of a whip seemed to ascend from the road before the house, but they did not pay much attention to it, mutually agreeing that it must be a delusion on their part. Now, however, that the song was at an end, the sound of a carriage and the loud cracking of a whip were distinctly heard. The pastor's wife opened the window, and putting out her head, into the dark night air, called out "Is any one there?"

"Yes, indeed," answered a gruff voice.

She closed the window quickly, for a current of biting icy air rushed in and made the singer's cheeks all in a glow. Her brother wished to look out also to see who it was, but his anxious sister held him back, as he was so heated by singing. She sent the maid down, and in the mean time, bewailed the possibility of her husband being, perhaps, obliged to go out on such a night.

The maid quickly returned, saying that a sledge had come from Röttmann's godless old wife, who desired that the clergyman should come to her immediately.

"Is Adam here, or a servant?" asked the pastor.

"A servant."

"Tell him to come in, and to take something warm till I am ready."

His wife implored him not to expose his life to danger for the sake of such a wicked old dragon: even by daylight it was dangerous at this time of year to drive to Röttmann's house, and how much worse by night!