attitude one of patient but despairing sorrow. Her back was slightly turned towards us, and for this reason I could not at first see her face.

But at the rustle of our entrance she rose quickly, and exhibited to my gaze the most beautiful presence I had ever beheld. The tall, stately figure, the ideal formation of the features, the glory of golden hair that fell about the fair, white neck, the deep, lustrous eyes that bespoke a soul as pure and beautiful as the scenes among which it flourished,—everything about the young mistress of the Castle proclaimed her to be of that noble type which we meet with but once, if at all, in a lifetime. Just what my feelings were at sight of this beautiful young woman I know not, but certain it is that they were of a nature hitherto unknown to me, and I felt a strange sense of harmony and contentment within me as my glance continued to rest upon her.

After a moment the Countess advanced, and said simply, "You are welcome, monsieur;" then, motioning towards the alcove where the Count lay, she added, "There is my father."

I bowed low, and without reply,—such was my agitation,—I approached the couch of the sick man. Sperver, standing at the head of the bed, held the lamp in his raised hand, and the light, softened by the crystal globe, fell palely upon the face of the Count. Odile remained near me, waiting anxiously for my first word.

At the first glance I was struck with the strange physiognomy of the Lord of Nideck, and in contrast to the admiration that his daughter had inspired within me, my first thought was, "He is an old wolf!" And in truth, his head bristling with gray hair and swelling behind the ears; his long, pointed face and receding forehead; his narrow eyes and shaggy eyebrows that met in a point over the bridge of his nose, imperfectly shading the dull, cold eye beneath; his short, stiff beard, spreading unevenly over his bony jaws,—in short, everything about the man made me shudder, and brought involuntarily to my mind the oft-alleged affinities between man and the brute creation.

I mastered my repugnance, and raised the arm of the sick man. It was wasted and tremulous, the hand small and wiry. The pulse was rapid, fluttering and feverish, indicating intense nervous excitement. What was I to do? I considered. On one side stood the young Countess, anxiously awaiting an expression of my opinion; on the other, Sperver, trying to read my thoughts and following attentively my slightest movement. A painful restraint was thus imposed upon me.

However, I saw that no decided step could be undertaken as yet. I dropped the arm, and listened to the breathing. From time to time, something like a sob escaped the sick man's breast; then the respiration became normal again; then faster, and finally, labored. Some sort of nightmare oppressed him. But the cause!—this I must determine first, and I must confess it seemed hopeless enough. I turned round, sorely perplexed.

"Is there any hope, monsieur?" asked the young woman.

"Yesterday's crisis is drawing to a close, mademoiselle. We must seek to ward off the next attack."

"Is that a possible thing?"

I was about to reply in some scientific generalities, not daring to commit myself, when the distant sound of the Castle bell fell upon our ears.

"Strangers," said Sperver.

There was a moment of silence.

"Go and see who it is," said Odile, whose brow was shadowed with anxiety. "How can we be hospitable at such times? It is impossible."

Just then the door opened, and a yellow head and rosy cheeks appeared in the shadow, whispering, "The Baron Zimmer, accompanied by his servant, asks for shelter in the Castle. He has lost his way in the mountains."

"Very well, Gretchen," replied the Countess quietly; "go and tell Offenloch to attend to the wants of the strangers. Tell him to inform the Baron Zimmer that the Count is very ill, and that this alone prevents him from doing the honors of the house in person. Wake up our people, and see that he is properly waited on and that everything is suitably done."

It would be difficult to describe the well-born simplicity with which the young mistress of the Castle gave her orders, and I reflected that if an air of nobility seems inherent in some families, it is certainly because the discharge of hospitable and charitable duties tends to elevate the character and ennoble the soul.

All this passed through my mind while I was admiring the gentle glance, the distinguished carriage, and the exquisitely cut features of Odile of Nideck,—that purity of outline only to be met with in the realms of aristocracy,—and I tried in vain to recall anything comparable to her in my recollection.

"Make haste, Gretchen! Don't keep the travellers waiting," said the young Countess.

"Yes, madame."

The servant departed, and I stood for a few moments unable to dispel the charm of my meditations. Odile turned and addressed me.

"You see, monsieur," she said with a sad smile, "we are not allowed to indulge our grief; we must ever divide ourselves between our feelings and the claims that others have upon us."

"That is too true, mademoiselle," I replied; "souls of the higher sort seem purposed to serve as a guide and promise to us weaker ones: the traveller who has lost his path, the sick man, and the starving pauper,—each has a claim upon them, for God has created them like the stars above us, for the happiness of all."

Odile lowered her deep-fringed eyelids, while Sperver pressed my hand.

After a moment, the Countess continued:

"Ah, monsieur, if you could only save my father!"

"As I have had the pleasure of telling you before, mademoiselle, yesterday's crisis is past; we must now endeavor to prevent its recurrence."

"Do you believe that this can be done?"

"With God's help, mademoiselle, it is not impossible. I must give the matter the most careful thought."

Odile, much agitated, moved with me to the door, and as I bowed myself out of the chamber, I fancied that I detected in her lovely face an expression of increased hope. Sperver and I crossed the antechamber, where a few servants were standing awaiting the orders of their mistress. We had just entered the corridor, when Gideon, who led the way, turned abruptly round, and resting his hands on my shoulders, said:

"Gaston, I am a man to be trusted; what is your opinion of the case?"

"There is nothing to be feared to-night."

"I know that; you said as much to the Countess. But to-morrow?"

"To-morrow?"

"Yes. Don't turn your head. I suppose you can't prevent a recurrence of the attack, but, frankly, do you think he will die of it?"

"He may, but I don't anticipate it."

"Ah," cried the good fellow joyfully; "that means you are sure he won't!"

Thrusting his arm through mine, he pulled me into the gallery. We had hardly set foot in it when the Baron Zimmer and his groom appeared, preceded by Sebalt, who carried a flaming torch in his hand. They were on their way to their chambers, and these two figures, with their cloaks flung over their shoulders, their knee-boots of soft Hungarian leather, their waists tightly buttoned in, their long green tunics ornamented with frogs and twisted fringes of silk and gold, their bearskin caps drawn down over their ears, and their long hunting-knives stuck in their belts,