does not seem long to me. Really, the starlings are here already. Where has the winter gone? Strange!"

Aunt Rosamond held this soliloquy at her chamber-window, as her gaze followed the little messengers of spring, who vanished so briskly into the wooden boxes, a large number of which had been placed for them on the trees and buildings. It was no sunny spring day there without; the clouds hung low and gray over the earth, and a warm, sultry wind tossed about the budding branches unmercifully, as if to shake them into complete awakening.

The old lady did not like the overcast sky at all, it put her out of humor. She could not wander about far out of doors, to be sure, but she would fain have seen the little spot of earth that lay stretched out before her window looking cheerful, and blue sky and sunshine lighting up the fresh green of the meadows, and the oaks in foliage.

"It ought to be always May or September here in the Mark," she used to say; "then it would be the loveliest country in the world. In winter one does best to draw the curtains, so as not to cast a single look out of doors, it looks so melancholy outside, brown upon brown, with a shade of dirty gray."

And so she turned from the window and its dull outlook, and limped quickly through the room, here and there arranging or straightening something. That was such a habit of hers. Now the candelabra on the spinet were moved a little, and now the delicate, withered hands picked a yellow leaf from a plant on the flower-stand, or gave an improving touch to the canopied bed which so pretentiously occupied an entire side of the room. Aunt Rosamond called that her throne; one had to climb up a pair of carpeted steps to reach it, and with its crimson silk hangings, somewhat faded indeed, and gilded knobs, it really gave you the impression of one. Then here and there she pushed back a coverlet or straightened a picture which tipped a little to one side. The latter she did most frequently, for the high walls were almost covered with pictures, a collection of portraits, mostly in oil or pastel. Aunt Rosamond knew a history about each one of the faces that looked so quietly from the frames in her room; she had known them all, these men and women there above, and strangely enough it sounded to hear her, as she stood before some picture, tell its story in a few words.

She had just limped to a card-table, over which was hung an oval pastel portrait of a man with curled and powdered hair and a blue silk coat. She gave the portrait a gentle push toward the right, but whether it was the cord or the nail that had become loose, matters not, down fell the picture, and lay face downward before Aunt Rosamond.

"Let it lie, aunt, I beg you!" called Anna Maria's voice at this moment; and before the old lady could collect herself, the girl had bent her slender form, and handed her the picture.

"Merci, ma petite!" she cried kindly, and looked into her niece's face; and, indeed, if Aunt Rosamond missed the spring without, now it had come, bodily, into her room.

Anna Maria still had on a dark-blue riding-habit which closely fitted her fine, strong figure, and the young face looked out from behind the blue veil with such a spring-like freshness, that it quite warmed Aunt Rosamond's heart.

"Have you been riding, Anna Maria?" asked the old lady, as the girl endeavored to find the fallen nail.

"Yes, aunt, I rode with Klaus for an hour on the Dambitz cross-road; afterward we met Stürmer by chance, and took a cup of coffee at Dambitz Manor."

"Indeed!" Aunt Rosamond seemed quite indifferent to this, although she looked searchingly at the reddening face of her niece, who, apparently, was very attentively regarding the rescued nail in her hand.

"Are the snow-drops in bloom already at Dambitz?" inquired the old lady. "Well, the garden lies well protected. But what do you say, Anna Maria, will you stay and rest with me? I think we will sit down a little while—n'est-ce pas, mon cœur?"

Anna Maria stood irresolute; she looked over at her aunt, who had already seated herself on the straight-backed, gayly flowered sofa, and pointed invitingly to an easy-chair. It was so comfortable in this cosey old room; the rococo clock with the Cupid bending his bow told its low tick-tack, and a sudden shower beat against the window panes; it was a little hour just made for chatting of all sorts of possible things, of the past and of the future.

Anna Maria slowly seated herself in the chair; she neither leaned back gracefully and comfortably nor rested her fair head on the cushions. Always straight as a candle, she carried herself perfectly, and so she remained now. But sudden blushes and deep pallor interchanged on her face, which turned with an expression of perfect, modest maidenliness toward the old lady's face. One could see that she wished to say something, and that her severe, unsympathetic nature was struggling with an overflowing heart.

Her aunt did not seem to notice it at all; she had taken up a book whose once green velvet binding was worn and faded with age. The delicate fingers turned leaf after leaf; then she glanced over a page, and after a pause said:

"Actually, Anna Maria, Felix Leonhard has fallen from the wall on his birthday; how singular! Now people call that chance, but how strange it is! I have always remembered the day hitherto, until to-day, and have been going about all the time with a feeling as if I had forgotten something, I could not exactly think what And then he announced himself. Mon pauvre Felix! You shall have your flowers to-day, as every year." And she caressingly touched the picture before her on the table. Then she looked over to Anna Maria almost shyly, for she knew that her niece sometimes smiled scornfully at signs and forebodings.

But to-day the deep line about Anna Maria's mouth was not to be seen; she looked thoughtfully at the picture, and asked: "Who was Felix Leonhard, aunt?"

"An early friend of my brother's," replied the old lady.

"Is he the one, aunt—I think you told me a strange story once about some one shooting himself for the sake of a girl?"

"Yes, yes, quite right, my child. This gay, handsome man once took a pistol and shot himself for the sake of a girl; quite right, Anna Maria. And he was no youth then, he was well on in the thirties, and yet did this horrible deed, unworthy of a peaceable man. Oh, it was a misery not to be described, Anna Maria!" She shook her head and passed her hands over her eyes, as if to frighten away a horrible picture.

"Why did he do it, aunt?" asked Anna Maria, in an unusually warm tone; "was she faithless to him, or——"

"She did not love him, ma petite; she had been persuaded by her parents and brothers and sisters to become engaged to him. He was in most excellent circumstances, and one of the best men I ever knew. He became acquainted with her at a ball in Berlin, and fell violently in love with her, although before that no one had ever considered his a passionate nature. She was not young at the time, not even particularly pretty, and with the exception of a pair of melancholy great eyes did not possess a charm. Eh bien, after endless doubts and struggles, she accepted his suit. The engagement lasted a whole year, and she was as shy and discreet a fiancée as could be found; he, on the other hand, was full of touching attentions to her; indeed, to use a worn-out figure, he carried her about in his hands. The nearer the wedding-day approached, the more dreadful grew the poor girl's state of mind. She had repeatedly asked various people if they believed she could make her lover happy, and she was always turned off with a jest, yet quite seriously as well, on the part of her brothers and sisters. Then on the wedding-day, half an hour before the ceremony was to take place, pale and trembling, she announced that she must take back her word, she could not speak perjury—she did not love him, and she did not wish his unhappiness! Ah, I shall never forget