his class and time. He had, moreover, too earnest and loving a faith to be influenced by superstition, which is the very opposite of a real and trustful belief. But his companion made no answer, and perhaps did not even hear him. They were now out of the forest, though it rose again on the other side of the narrow valley—a fertile spot, well cultivated, with the trout stream which had accompanied them for the last mile flowing through it, and making the meadows green on either side. The crops were gathered and the fields cleared where corn had been carried. All looked peaceful and prosperous, the strangest contrast to what Dorner had seen that afternoon at Mühlbach, only a little way off.

He checked the horse to look down on the little vale, with an eager, wistful gaze; a smile of relief and gratitude came over his face, and his eyes rested with a sort of joyful content upon the farm-house below them—a goodly, substantial building, with broad eaves, under which swallows had built as welcome guests for generations, and where some kindly hand had put up boxes in which the starlings might make their nests, unmolested, if they would but hold their own, by the sparrows. Corn was

built into large ricks, raised on framework some way above the ground; hay was piled in another part of the farmyard; and the extent of grange and stable told that the owner was a thriving and well-to-do man. As they stood above this goodly sight they could perceive the stir of life about the place, busy and orderly, and hear in the

still air loud sounds of voices and the bleating and lowing of cattle, and shrill cackling of fowls, all mingled and formed a rustic chorus far from unpleasing.

Dorner lifted his cap as he had done at Mühlbach, though now with far other feelings, and said, pointing downwards

"Blessed be the good Lord who has brought me back in safety, and given thee, poor lass, to my keeping, and kept the dwelling while I was absent. Truly, except He keep it, the watchman waketh but in vain. See, maiden; there below stands Tannenhof, and thou art right welcome among us, thou poor little child, and must not look on us as strangers, though we be Lutheran and thou, I take it, a Papist. And hearken, thou must not take it amiss if my mother, Dame Martha, seem somewhat hard and cold at the first. She is old, and loves not those of thy creed overmuch, and she has her own ways; but she is a good and pious woman, and means well even where she seems harsh. Thou shalt henceforth be one of ourselves, like my little Johann and my nephew Martin who has no mother, like thee, and-well, well, for aught I know, no father, for Josenhans has neither come nor sent word of himself this many a day-and so best," added the farmer, in a much lower tone, while a shadow clouded his pleasant face. "So that is enough. Tell me by what name to call thee; thou canst not be of these parts," he added, suddenly struck with a perception of how unlike was this thin brown girl, with her black brows and hair and glowing eyes, to

the fair-skinned, fair-haired population of Thuringia. "Thou art not a Thuringian ?" he repeated.

"No," she answered, indifferently.

"Whence then? From Southern Germany, I should guess." "From Ulm."

"From Ulm! And what then brought you hither?" "Our father died," she answered, as if it were too great an effort for her tired lips to frame a longer reply.

“And you were sent to kinsfolk-was it not so?"

She nodded in answer.

"And by what name shall we call thee?" Dorner asked again.

They were moving on now, and had descended the winding path leading from the ridge, where they had paused, to the farm. She looked for a moment at the house, sheltered by a great oak, a vine clinging to its walls. and garlanding them with its abundant festoons; its door hospitably open, giving a glimpse into a large hall or kitchen within; its barns and stacks and stables all telling of long-standing peace and plenty, all contrasting in the strongest manner with the scene which she had had for four months before her eyes, and from which Dorner had brought her but a few hours before. There was all the wretchedness and suffering of war; here "lovely peace with plenty crowned"; but no pleasure came into her eyes, no colour to her thin face, and Dorner had once more to repeat, Come, tell me thy name, my girl," before she seemed to know what he had said.

"Theresa,” she answered at last, wearily.

CHAPTER II.

"But now she came to me in sleep,
Her eyes were on my soul :

Kind eyes! they said, 'And didst thou weep
And I did not console?'"

-DORA GREENWELL..

D

ORNER'S approach had been perceived, and

caused an immediate and joyful excitement in and around the farm-house.

He had, after all, only been absent three days, but at that period peril and adventure enough for a lifetime were sometimes compressed into a space equally short.

Several labourers, came out from barn and stable to greet him; another quickened the deliberate pace at which his sleek horses were returning from the fields after a long day's work; half a dozen flaxen-headed, sun-browned children of different ages, who had been picking up acorns, scampered up with a joyful shout at the recognition of their master, and the cries mingled with the hissing and cackling of a flock of geese, driven by a bare-footed girl, who shook her rod at them as they stretched out snaky necks and lifted their heads indignantly as they waddled

along, protesting at being brought home and shut up. A herd of swine came from another direction, grunting loudly on their return from the forest, where they had been fattening themselves on beech-mast under the care of a lad who was now driving them back, glad that the sight of home had made them less unruly than they were in the forest, where every single one would seem suddenly possessed by a separate spirit of mischief, and run hither and thither, defying all discipline, and exulting over the feast of acorns and beech-mast spread on the ground before them. There was a stir inside the house too. A couple of sturdy lasses came running to the door, and a little lad, evidently Dorner's son, rushed out and sprang upon his

father with a shout of exultation.

It was plain that the farmer was a good master and dearly loved by his family. He spoke kindly to the labourers who had come up, and nodded to their children, who were standing aloof in a group, staring in astonishment at Theresa, whose eyes wandered listlessly over their faces as if she scarcely distinguished what was passing. Lifting his boy in a hearty embrace, Dorrer answered his wondering inquiry as to whom he had brought home, ""Tis a poor homeless maid, my lad; I picked her up as thou didst the little thrush which dropped out of its nest in the bush last spring and hurt its wing. We will see if we can cure and tame her, as thou didst the bird. Is the grandmother well? Where is Martin ?"

By this time they had reached the house door, and the