tered around him, and swallows twittered from every roof. The perfume of a thousand plants assailed his senses in unison with the fumes of Hungarian tobacco, which he inhaled from his pipe.

In the midst of this beatitude of a German smoker, his eyes accidentally rested on that part of the terrace where his sister had fainted. As he recalled the circumstances, his curiosity revived, and without regret be cut short his meditation to examine the spot at leisure. Except the sun which at this hour brightened the scene, nothing had changed on the ter race. One trifling circumstance however struck him. It was that the pannel of a shutter to one of the windows on the ground floor was open, and it was exactly there that the accident happened. Through this he gazed into the interior of the palace.

He perceived a spacious unfurnished room, the tapestry glowing with Cupids and nymphs in German costume. Ancient cobwebs enveloped Diana and Acteon in the same drapery, or joined forcibly, though by a frail band, the fugitive Daphne and her pursuer-bright rays of light darted through many a chink in the dilapidated windows, in which myriads of little flies were sporting-and these objects comprised all the mysteries of the apartment.

The painter, after pausing a moment to observe the effect of light and shade, was turning away, when he distinctly saw a side door open, and a tall young man wrapped in a cloak appeared on the threshhold and advanced with slow steps into the room. Like a shadow he traversed those rays of light, and proceeded directly towards the spot where Mr. Hasslinger had stationed himself. But the stranger who walked with his head sunk on his breast, did not perceive him. He seemed instinctively to take a route that was familiar to hi n-consequently the painter, notwithstanding his extreme surprise, had time to draw back and so to place himself that he could still make his observations without being remarked The young man soon made his appearance at the window, where he stood motionless for a few moments with his singularly beautiful eyes languidly fixed on the brilliant ascension of the sun in the heavens.

Mr. Hasslinger, though much agitated, did not fail to engrave on his memory the singular features which chance offered to his study. They belonged to that rare class which unites in one ileality the severe lines of the north with the graceful contour of the south. But the apparition was as short as it was attractive. The young man appeared agitated by some secret emotion-he sighed-his eyes filled with tears, and he retired.

Mr Hasslinger, rendered discreet by the deep interest with which the event inspired him, resumed his pipe, wandered some time longer on the 'terrace, and as the morning advanced sought the path to the farm-still occupied in reflections on this singular rencontre. Our friend belonged to that generation of young patriots, whom the political events of 1830 found in the Prussian Universities, and whose illusive hopes were too often converted into unforgiving bitterness. He now knew but two objeets of interest in the world, the health of his sister, and the study of his art. Confining himself to his comfortable house in Berlin, he employed a moderate fortune in endeavours to retain the fleeting existence of Wilhelmina, while by devotion to his profession he sought to forget the threatened evil. It is therefore probable, that this mysterious rencontre would

soon have been dismissed from his mind, with other objects of vague cu riosity, had he not on approaching his former seat perceived his sister reclining on it in a thoughtful attitude, with her eyes fixed, as his had been, on the eastern wing of the palace.

Tae blow struck home-he felt that chill of the heart which is the echo of all treason, suddenly revealed-of all hypocrisy secretly discovered, But his subtlety became equal to his grief. During their breakfast he negligently opened his port-folio and took a pencil.

"I wish," said he, smiling, to Mr. Eberhard and his sister, "to know your opinion on the character of a face, which I dreamed of last night. Laspiration is often born of dreams. The devil, you know, whispered a sonata to Tartiai—I believe he has whispered something to me also. Look at this profile!"

Wilhelmina and Mr. Eberhard approached him. The pencil, guided by a hand feverish with emotion, traced the paper with rapid but sure strokes.

"What do you think of it?" said the artist, presenting first to his sister the living sketch of the mysterious stranger.

A moment before, the pale cheek and fair smooth brow of Wilhelmina had been placid as the surface of a tranquil lake-but no sooner did she cast her eyes on the drawing, than she gently pressed her right hand on her heart, as if it beat too rapidly--bent her head, cast down her long lashes, and remained silent. The brother trembled, and not daring to venture farther, turned to his friend

"And you Fritz?"

"It is indeed a remarkable countenance," said Mr. Eberhard, in a sad voice, "but I doubt if such a one belongs to any mortal."

"You are right," said the painter, turning pale, no one but the Mephistopheles of Goethe could unite those features, too perfect for humanity, with an infernal object. When I had this dream, perhaps the idea of a Margaret was also in my mind and heart-but she shall not be his victim-I swear to you!"

"This I believe is a favorable hour to visit the gallery of paintings," said Mr. Eberhard, coldly. "Come, I will call the servant who has charge of it."

The visit was as solemn as the hearts of the three friends-every thing was examined in silence, till they came to Overbeck's picture of Germa ny and Italy. Then the artist found means of expending on politics some of the smothered anger which the fear of agitating his sister prevented him from expressing more directly-and the astonished vaults of Schleissheim soon resounded with wishes and imprecations, to which certainly neither Napoleon, or the kings of Bavaria, had ever accustomed their echoes. To all these declamatory reminiscences Wilhelmina listened in silence; but Mr. Eberhard, in his quality of a Bavarian functionary, felt 'obliged to offer some opposition to his friend, whose sentiments he had never embraced, even at the university.

"There are unavoidable evils in every state," said he, with a look of intelligence towards the young lady, "therefore I respect all prejudices, and have no wish for changes which may do more harm than good. You only think of the triumph, and forget the victims."

.."I know," replied Mr. Hasslinger, "that kings themselves have perish

ed in the cause of liberty." Wilhelmina, in her turn, now looked at the superintendent. "And that their deaths have proved the instrument of its progression," continued her brother-"but these fatal contradictions and horrible necessities humiliate and alarm me; yet I have no mercy for the faults which such examples have not corrected, and which may yet produce their recurrence."

These recriminations might have continued much longer, if the two friends had not blushed at prolonging their bitterness before the frail and gentle girl-and they left the gallery together, each with the secret desire

to be alone.

Mr. Hasslinger soon afterwards seizing a favorable moment, took their guide aside

"Are the apartments in the eastern wing never opened to visitors?" said he.

"No sir, but occasionally the king sends pictures from Munich, which are placed there till they are put up in the gallery."

"Let me see those pictures?"

"It is impossible, sir," replied the keeper with regret, "I am forbid den to do it."

In Germany, and particularly in Bavaria, an official will is sacred-and the order of a superior descends to an inferior like a revelation. This fidelity therefore did not surprise Mr. Hasslinger, and he changed his battery.

Who has the keys?" said he, negligently.

"Mr. Eberhard."

"Ah, I understand!" thought the painter-and he resumed in a tone of well feigned compassion, "My poor fellow! I will not betray youthe superintendent shall know nothing of it. But you have not been sufficiently watchful. I fear there is some plan to rob the palace of those precious pictures. Early this morning," said he, frowning, "I saw a man at one of those windows. I advise you to visit the apartments with care. To be sure, it may have been a ghost-but you, a Tyrolese, have no fear." The painter well knew with whom he had to deal-the Tyrolese are childishly credulous in their superstitions, therefore his last words were decisive.

"Prince Max-Emmanuel died in one of those rooms on the ground floor," said the Tyrolese, with a stupefied look, and seeking what he was to believe from the eyes of Mr. Hasslinger.

"It is very probable that it was Prince Max," said he, seriously."My friend, endeavor to procure the keys, and we will satisfy ourselves respecting it. Some night-this very one, if you please, we will visit the apartments together."

His expectations were not disappointed. Late in the evening the Tyr olese came to seek him with a pale countenance, and a lantern and bunch of keys in his hand. The painter gave him his travelling pistols, which were not loaded, and armed himself with his Gottengen rapier. But at the moment of thus penetrating by main force into the secret of his sister and his host, he reflected that he might at least avoid drawing the subaltern into difficulty-he therefore, while crossing the vestibule turned coolly towards him and said in a low voice,

"You are the father of five children-your life therefore is more valua

ble than mine. Give me the keys and lantern, and wait for me hereyou can pray till my return."

The Tyrolese immediately drew from his pocket one of those unmeasurable chaplets which the Franciscans of Munich sell for a florin, and the painter, plunging into darkness, disappeared from his eyes

With firm steps he traversed several apartments on the ground floor, where he only encountered solitude and vacuity. But on entering the saloon, which was partly lighted by the su pected window, he was astonished to find it open, and on endeavoring to enter the next apartment, though the lock obeyed his key, the door resisted all his efforts to open it. The open window suggested the idea that some person had lately gone out by that way-no doubt soon to return and placing himself in an ob scure corner, he determined to wait there awhile.

In about twenty minutes, an old man climbed slowly up to the window from the terrace; but he was not the stranger in the cloak- he was dressed like a domestic, and carried a basket in his hand. Closing the window with precaution, he passed Mr Hasslinger without perceiving him, and knocking lightly at the unyielding door, it opened instantly, and he entered in silence.

This singular incident convinced Mr. Hasslinger that his research required great circumspection, and he immediately returned to the vestibule, where he found the mountaineer with the pistol in one hand, and his chaplet in the other, yet never losing sight of his path to the farmfearing Mr. Eberhard quite as much as the most implacable ghost.

"I have discovered nothing to-night," said the painter, "but we will try again. Now extinguish your lantern, and be quiet"

Those adventures, commonly called romantic, are not of such rare occurrence as is generally supposed-there are few persons who could not, from some incident of their lives, furnish the subject of a melo drama — The equivocal conduct of the stranger and his servant, therefore, only interested the painter from their suspected connection with his sister, whose happiness, an invincible presentiment assured him, would be destroyed. Unfortunately, he soon lost his opportunity of obtaining the keys of the palace-the Tyrolese was sent to Munich, where duty detained him three weeks, and this absence of his confidant was a season of wearisome leisure to him. Nothing new transpired at Schleissheim; in vain he wandered around the eastern wing of the palace; in vain he laid whole hours on the lawn before it, holding his breath, to hear nothing but the chirping of the grass-hoppers Each morning the sun arose from behind the mountains of Salzburg-blazed at noon on the mossy rocks of Schleissheim, and passed as in mockery over his head. Each evening it sunk into the woods beyond Ingolstadt, and reflected its last rays on the walls of Schleissheim, but without rendering them transparent. The palace still remain. ed close as a prison, mute as a tomb.

In the joyous oasis of the farm however, Wilhelmina regained, if not health, at least the appearance of strength and animation. In Schleissheim there appeared to exist a secret charm, an invisible balm which us tained her at noon, when the birds, drooping under the heat of the day, warbled more and more faintly from the motionless branches, she might also be seen like the birds, seeking the shade of some old tree in the park, or bending over a clear spring, and smiling to behold herself a little less

thin, and a little less pale than in Berlin, as if this last ray of beauty, even in such a solitude was consoling to her. These moments so precious to Wilhelmina, this forgetfulness of impending fate, usually terminated by a stroll on the terrace; there in the fine sand which bordered the neglected parterre, her trembling hand would trace with a slender wand, so ne verse of Hoelty, the favorite poet of Northern Germany, particularly the following:

"In the thickets, the nightingales are singing,

Fair children sport in the lea y arbors,
Their joyful st outs echo on every side,

And disperse the gloomy shades of care❞—

Leaving these fugitive characters on the sand, she would steal quietly back to her apartment, a little wearied, but with a beautiful glow on her cheek, and a tender light beaming from her eyes; her heart seemed full -and the hidden happiness spread its cheering light over every thing around her.

On the return of the Tyrolese, Mr. Hasslinger made several nocturnal visits to the palace, but he always encountered the same obstacle; that obstinate door resisted all his efforts. A few excursions to Munich, Unterbruck, Nymphenburg, Biederstein, and the lake of Wurmser appeared to amuse Wilhelmina, and filled up the time till the last week of July; at this period, the rainy season was approaching, and Mr. Hasslinger prepar ed to depart, but met with a caressing opposition from his sister, which he knew not how to overcome. Old suspicions but half satisfied, still rankled in his mind.

"I dread these misty mornings for you," said he, gazing through the gothic window at the old trees in the park, whose tops were still wrapped in a blueish vapor.

"And that charming view of Schleissheim, that you promised me, when will it be finished?" interrupted Wilhelmina, gliding her smiling face between her brother's looks and the misty prospect.

"Dear sister, these vapors are fatal to you."

“Oh, I shall not fear them, till they condense into rain, and that rarely happens till the end of August-then we will fly."

But you forget, Miss," remarked Mr. Eberhard, "that the early frosts of the Tyrol may then overtake you."

The painter, thinking his friend's zeal for her safety rather suspicious, preserved a cold silence.

"If I desire a week's respite," said the young lady, timidly, "it is to see Miss Eberhard, who will return in a few days from Vienna "

"Where she married the aulic counsellor G," said the superintend ent, secretly watching the effect of his words on Mr. Hasslinger.

"G!” cried the painter, indignantly, "the judge of Silvio Pellico?" "Himself." replied Mr. Eberhard, somewhat disconcerted.

The unexpected refusal of Wilhelmina, and the unskilful intervention of his host, had not put the painter in good humor, and the news of this marriage, by opening a former wound, became the drop which caused his cup of bitterness to overflow.

"Fritz," said he, seizing his arm with an iron grasp, "I thank you. Wilhelmina must go now, for a Hasslinger should no longer remain under your roof."