the poor lady without her beautiful golden hair," observed Teresa, after a moment's silence, "and I always felt glad to think the lord had to be punished for his wickedness; but, somehow, hearing you tell the story, Herr Müller, I wish his punishment might not last much longer. For he was truly sorry, wasn't he?"

Herr Müller looked quizzically at his wife, and they both turned their heads from the earnest faces of the children.

"Do you find the old legends of the Danube interesting, Teresa?" asked Herr Müller, as the boat sped along, and the children maintained silence.

"Oh, I love all sorts of tales," the child replied. "Father tells us some occasionally, but I am home so little of the time now I do not hear as many as I used to. In the summer-days we are always so busy at the farm we do not have the time for story-telling as we do in the winter-days."

"Austria is full of tales about lords and ladies, ghosts and towers, but the Danube legends are not as well known as those of the Rhine. Have you ever heard that story concerning the Knight of Rauheneck near Baaden?"

"No, Herr Müller," replied Teresa.

"Well, it isn't much of a tale when you compare it with the Habsburg legends and the Griefenstein, and Stock im Eisen, but then it is worth telling."

"Begin," commanded the young son, in playful mood.

"Well, near Baaden there stands a formidable fortress called Rauheneck where lived a knight in former years. As he was about to go to war, and might return after many years and perhaps never, he decided to hide the treasures of the castle and place a spell upon them so that none might touch them but those for whom they were intended. So, in secrecy, he mounted to the summit of the great tower of the castle and on the battlement he planted a cherry stone, saying, as he did so:

"'From this stone shall spring forth a tree; a mighty cherry-tree; from the trunk of the tree shall be fashioned a cradle; and in that cradle shall be rocked a young baby, who, in later years, shall become a priest. To this priest shall my treasure belong. But even he may not be able to find the treasure until another cherry-tree shall have grown upon the tower, from a stone dropped by a bird of passage. When all these conditions have been complied with, then shall the priest find the treasure at the foot of my tree, and not until then.'

"Then the careful knight, fearing for the safety of his treasure, even after such precautions, called upon a ghost to come and watch over the castle tower, that peradventure, daring robbers who might presume to thrust aside the spells which bound the treasure, would fear to cope with a ghost."

"And did the priest ever come?" queried Teresa.

"Not yet, child; the cherry-tree at the top of the tower is but yet a sapling; there are long years yet to wait."

"But we don't believe in ghosts, father," interrupted Ferdinand. "Why could not some one go and dig at the root of the tree and see if the treasure were really there?"

"One could if he chose, no doubt," answered Herr Müller, "but no one has."

"Would you, Ferdinand?" asked Teresa.

"Oh, I might, if I were a grown man and had a lot of soldiers with me."

"Do you know another legend, Herr Müller?" asked Teresa, shortly.

"Well, there is the legend of Endersdorf in Moravia.

"A shepherd once lived in the neighborhood, and although he had always been exceedingly poor, often almost to the verge of starvation, yet, one morning, his neighbors found that he had suddenly become exceedingly rich. Every one made conjectures concerning the source of his wealth, but none of them became the confidante of the shepherd, so that none were ever the wiser. The erstwhile poor shepherd left his humble cot and built himself a magnificent estate and palace upon the spot; he surrounded himself with retainers and sportsmen and gave himself up quite naturally to a life of ease and indolence. Most of his time was spent in following the hounds; but with all his newly-acquired wealth, and notwithstanding the memory of days when a few pence meant a fortune to him, the shepherd lost all sense of pity, and none about the country-side were quite so penurious and selfish as he. To such poor wayfarers as accosted him, in mercy's name, to befriend them, he turned a deaf ear, until his name was the synonym for all that was miserable and hard-hearted.

"Now, it happened, that one day a poor beggar came to the gate of the rich shepherd, asking for alms. The shepherd was about to leave the gate in company with a noisy crowd of hunters and followers, on his way to the chase. Taking no pity on the poor man's condition, he suddenly conceived the idea of making the beggar his prey.

"'Here is sport for us, good men,' he cried. 'Let us drive the beggar before us with our whips, and see him scamper lively.'

"Whereupon, following the action of their host, the entire company raised their whips, set spurs to their horses, and drove the trembling, frightened, outraged man from before them.

"'Now has your hour come,' cried out the old man, as he turned and defied his assailants. 'May all the curses of Heaven fall upon your heads, ye hard-hearted lot of roysterers!'

"At the word, the sky, which had before been cloudless, grew suddenly black; the lightning flashed; the thunder rolled; the very ground under their feet, shook, cracked and opened, swallowing the shepherd, his followers, their horses, dogs, and every vestige of the estate vanished. In its place arose a lake whose dark waters tossed and moaned in strange fashion.

"On stormy days, even to this present day, when the waters of the lake are lashing themselves in fury, the shepherd of the hard heart can be seen passing across the waves, his whip raised to strike some unseen object, a black hunting dog behind him. How long his punishment may last, no one knows, but he can always be seen just as he was when the earthquake swallowed him up."

"Isn't it strange," observed Teresa, "but every one of the tales end in the punishment of the wicked knight."

"Of course," remarked Ferdinand. "They wouldn't be tales at all if the wrong-doer was allowed to go free. Would they, father?"

"Indeed not; but now it's time for breakfast. Would you like to eat on deck? It is so perfect a day, it is a pity to go indoors."

This suggestion appealed wonderfully to the children, and Herr Müller left them to order the meal served upon the deck.

As night fell, the boat docked at Linz. Herr Runkel was waiting on the quay with a heavy wagon and a team of horses to drive them to the farm. It was a beautiful drive in the bright moonlight, and the lights of Linz twinkled below them, while the Danube sparkled in the distance, just like a fairy world.

It was very late when they reached the farm-house; Frau Runkel greeted them cordially, and immediately after helping them off with their wraps, poured out steaming hot coffee to warm them up, the night air having been a trifle chilly.

Ferdinand went directly to his room after coffee was served. It was on the opposite side of the house, on the ground floor; the farm-house was but one story high, with a lofty attic above. In one corner of the large bedroom stood a canopied bed of dark wood, elaborately painted in bright colors, on head and foot board, with designs of flowers and birds. There were two small, stiff-backed wooden chairs, a night-table, upon which stood a brass candlestick, and an enormous wardrobe or chest for his clothes. All the furnishings of the room, even to the rug by the