from her pocket and looked at it lovingly. It had been read over many times; she knew it almost by heart, and yet the news it contained were rather sad than otherwise. It was her father's last letter, written in the usual undecided strain, talking of weak health and an intended excursion to Graz, where another doctor was to be consulted. Then it mentioned a certain Lieutenant Latics, quartered at Graz, whom he had met on the railway and travelled with all the way to Vienna, and who frequently came to Gleichenberg, where an aunt of his was spending the winter, and never failed to come and spend an hour with him, and who was a very gentlemanly fellow and an uncommonly kind and pleasant companion.

The young girl read that passage over and over again, and forgot that it was getting late. Little clouds of mist began to rise, hanging like bits of veil on the branches and filling the air with a kind of vapour wherein the setting sun was throwing strange red and yellow lights. Mariska gave a last look at the wonderful picture around her and rose to go, when she was startled by the noise of the axe, some calling out of men, and the crash of a falling tree. The sound was faint-it seemed to come from a considerable distance; no doubt woodmen were at work in the forest below the alp. The trodden path which led on in that direction was now easily explained.

Mariska hesitated. Should she go back, as she had come across the meadows? It was very lonely, and she might lose her way in the fog that was getting thicker after the sun had disappeared. It would perhaps be wiser to follow the path leading to the valley, where she would soon be in the track made by the timber-sledges. She might meet some of the woodmen; and they were a wild set certainly, living at wretched villages high up on the mountains far from any civilisation, and they used to come down only for the wood-cutting, for they were awfully poor and did work wherever they could get it, and they used to spend the whole week in the forest sleeping in miserable little huts made of branches and sticks, and warming themselves by hard work and a great deal of very bad brandy; and on Saturday nights they used to go back to their own village, ten out of twelve sadly tipsy. Still one never heard of their doing any serious harm, except that of having an occasional brawl and some broken heads between them.

Mariska thought it best to choose that path. She ran down towards the valley as fast as the slippery ground would allow her, and had soon reached the road leading to the village. She gavé a little sigh of relief, for although that road had grown as slippery as glass by the sledging of the timber, she was at least safe from losing her way, and it was pleasant to hear the sound of approaching voices. She stopped and listened. Sledges seemed to be coming. She heard the drivers shouting and the cracking of whips. Now she might walk in their track, she would be quite safe. She had just arrived at a spot where the road turned to the left, following the sudden descent of the hill.

Huge rocks were

rising on the right, while on the left the bank formed a steep precipice. She knew the place well: it was generally considered an awkward one for driving, and might even now prove dangerous to her in case the timber-sledges should come suddenly down upon her. Fog and darkness were increasing. She could hardly see a yard before her; but the noise was very near to the turn of the road. She strained her eyes: a pair of horses' heads emerged from the mist. She called out to the men to stop; they did not hear or mind her. Which side of the road would they take? Oh, how fortunate! They kept pretty close to the rocks; it would be wisest to step over to the other side and wait till they had passed. She did so, drawing as near to the brink of the precipice as possible. The first sledge went by rapidly with the timber dragging close to the opposite rocks-the second likewise-now the third; there seemed to be only one more, when suddenly the timber changed its direction, sliding towards her; now it was quite close; she stepped back as far as she could with the precipice behind her, and drew in her breath, trembling all over; the wood pushed against her foot; she slipped, fell across the tall sliding trees, and felt herself borne down the road with awful rapidity, then by the rolling of the tree flung on the ground, no doubt to be crushed between the timber. Shudder and sickness overcame her.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw close to her face a pair of bushy eyebrows white with frost, and an immense fur-cap, and a gruff voice said

'Well, it is really you, my little cousin. I thought it was some ghost of the forest! What business have you to be lying on lonely roads like a corpse and to frighten honest people?'

She knew the voice and the strong hand that supported her head— they were Zoltán Bácsi's. He always scolded and grumbled when he felt sad or uneasy.

Mariska put her hand to her forehead, as if to gather recollection of what had happened.

'I had walked to the wood up there,' she said faintly. The doctor said I wanted air. And I meant to come back this way, and the sledges came and the timber seized me-it was so awful!'-she shuddered in thinking of it.

'What folly! And you don't even know the fellow that drove the sledge? Of course not! And if you did, it would not be of much use, for I could not have him hung for it, as in the good olden times; and as to putting him to prison, why, the fellow would consider it a pleasant winter residence! Of course, you have broken an arm or a leg, ugy-e, have you not?'

'I don't think there is anything the matter,' she said, rising and stretching her limbs.

• Nothing at all? Are you sure? Think a little: there must be something!'

Mariska could not repress a smile.

'I think my elbow is hurt,' she said, 'and I feel a little nervous, that is all.'

'Well, my dear, you have had a narrow escape! God be thanked for it! And now take my arm-it is an old man's, but strong enough, and you may safely lean on it. We shall soon reach the village, and you must come to my house and have a cup of coffee or a glass of old Tokay, and

'Thank you very much, dear Zoltán Bácsi! I kiss your hands; but I am afraid mamma will have missed me and be uneasy.'

'So they have made even you mistrust me, while I should like to protect you in your loneliness, szegény galambom!' (my poor dove). Mariska burst out into tears.

'I do not mistrust you,' she said; 'I know you have been wronged, and I wish-oh, so sincerely-there would be peace and harmony amongst us all again. I am lonely, very lonely, and although all the Nénis and Bácsis are very kind to me, I have nobody to whom I could tell all- -none who would advise me in my troubles!'

Never apply to

'I will be your friend, my poor little rosebud ! any one but me. I shall stand by you, come what may! And now, since you don't wish to enter my house, I shall see you home. It was fortunate I had been out shooting so late. The dogs had taken up the scent and run on through the Poludnica forest, and I ought to have known by the sound they would not drive the game my way. I suppose they have devoured it by this time, and will have an indigestion. It is poor sport hunting with those hounds--they ruin any shooting-ground; but we Hungarians are lazy people-we prefer sending our dogs up the mountains instead of exerting ourselves in climbing. We are the riders par excellence; but walking exercise is not our strong point. In spite of all our civilisation, there is a good deal of King Attila and the Hun left in us, is there not, kicsikém?' (my little one).

'Not in you, Zoltán Bácsi! You are a learned man, and can talk foreign languages, and have travelled all over Europe; but

'Oh, indeed? You know how to flatter, little one. That, too, is a Hungarian quality: we like to say pretty things, and we are not false we really mean what we say-at least, while we are saying it. Our kindness and our enthusiasm, both are sincere. Moriamur pro rege nostro !—and they did die for our great lady-king, many of our ancestors! Do you ever read history, lelkem?' (my soul).

'I do when I can get any. I am very fond of reading serious books, for I know I am ignorant, although perhaps I learned a little more. than most of my cousins, who were all brought up in the convent.'

'I shall send you books such as you will like. You read French and German, ugy-e? Very well, I am glad of it. It is now the fashion in Hungary to read and talk nothing but Hungarian. They call that patriotism. Ridiculous! We were good patriots in my time, I think, we who fought for our country and lost life or fortune and position

by standing up for our rights, and still we had made our studies in Latin, and knew the German and French authors by heart. It is very proper to be fond of one's own language and literature; but our literature being rather green still, although most lovely in its very youthfulness, we ought to read Shakespeare and Molière and Göthe and Schiller, from whom our own poets learned.'

Zoltán Bácsi, being an old man, liked to talk, and be listened to and understood as he was by Mariska, and when they arrived at the Kastély, the time seemed to have gone very quickly.

Here we are at your door, lelkem. I shall send you some wine directly to give you a little strength after your madcap walk.'

Közsönöm (thanks), Zoltán Bácsi! I shall try to be worthy of your kindness.'

'Nonsense, kicsikém! (my little one). But why does old Porubska not open the door?' He gave another hard knock. Ah, there she is! Well, my old woman, you are surprised to see me? Take care of your kisaszonyka (your young lady); she has tired herself; get her some hot coffee directly!'

'Oh, pan velkomužni !' (the gracious gentleman) cried the old woman, seizing his hand and kissing it in spite of all his endeavours to withdraw it. Jaj, kisaszonyka, moja draga! (my dear miss) that is good-you have come at last! There has been a letter waiting for you ever so long. The messenger from the telegraph-office brought it, and he says it ought to have been here in the morning; but as he was just getting home a cart-load of wood, and there was nobody else to take the letter-Jésus Mária! What is the matter, moja draga?'

Mariska had opened the telegram, and all the colour forsook her face when she read the few words it contained. She looked round her in a bewildered way, as if she did not understand, then, uttering a passionate cry, she hid her face on the old man's shoulder. He understood it all. The telegram announced the death of Tátrafalusy János.

V.

THE burial was over. The earthly remains of the once brilliant cavalier had been consigned in state to the family vault in the village cemetery, a burial-ground hardly inferior in beauty of scenery to the far-famed cemeteries of Vevey and Montreux. The funeral service, held in the little village church, had been attended by a multitude of people, and there had been much weeping and lamenting, and all that loud utterance of grief which appears so strange to the northern mind, but is peculiar to an impulsive and passionate people like the Hungarians. Tátrafalusy János had been a general favourite with the gentry and peasantry, for he was kind in a way and easy and hospitable, and gave when he had anything to give; therefore most of the crying and 'jaj'-ing was genuine.

All the Bácsis and Nénis were full of sympathy; but when Gizela Néni came to see Mariska and her mother, and only kissed the girl without saying a word, and looked at her so full of sadness and love, then Mariska knew who had been Gizela Néni's lover, and for whose sake she had been forsaken.

The sad event had produced a wonderful change in the invalid woman's state. On that memorable evening when Mariska, nearly choking with tears, began to tell her the fatal news, a sudden light seemed to dawn in her mother's eyes. She sat up in her bed and said

'I know he is dead. Everything dear to me must perish. Now they will come and cheat you out of your fortune! But I shall not allow it. I am well versed in the law; I know their tricks. We must be careful. Do not trust anybody-nobody! Do you hear

me?'

6

'I hear you, dear mamma,' her daughter answered, a tearful smile playing about her lips; but I am afraid, we really are so poor, that it will not be worth anybody's while to cheat us, even supposing we had such enemies.'

'Silly girl!' said the widow, with an impatient gesture. You do not know the world, but I do. I shall take care of your interest. Your father made a will. I know where it is. I shall act for you.'

The widow, indeed, had herself dressed and carried to the sofa. One side of her body had been maimed by apoplexy; but her right hand and foot were not affected, and her brain the physician declared to be sound, except for the one fixed idea that people wanted to cheat her.

The will was found. It seemed to have been composed when the deceased was still in undisputed possession of the property. All was left to Mariska, and only the use of the house and garden allowed to the widow for her lifetime, considering she had a large income of her own.' The Ablegatus was appointed Mariska's guardian.

Etel was pleased with the arrangement and talked about her daughter being an heiress, although the property had been somewhat diminished and she herself cheated out of her own fortune by the lawyers. István, the Ablegatus, however, who came down from Budapest, to show his readiness, as he ceremoniously said to her, of accepting the proffered trust and talk over with his ward and her mother all necessary business matters, quietly and plainly told her that a whole swarm of creditors had come forth, and that, unless things were entirely left to his management, not a kreuzer would be saved for either mother or daughter. The house and garden had, in fact, been sold to a Jewish timber-merchant, who had equally bought the forest. That man, however, might be prevailed upon to exchange it for some isolated strip of forest and alp, the only unmortgaged property poor János had left. They could in that case live on