full; glass after glass, and jug after jug, passed among the crowd; hundreds of gallons flowed before the demand was satisfied, and Heinrich himself, with his face beaming with happiness, joined largely in the consumption. Then one by one the multitude began to disperse; some, half-tipsy, reeled along the road home; others, seizing hold of broken pails and tin pitchers, made the wood ring with their unmelodious music; and a few who had come for the purpose of tasting old Mässinger's wine, walked home as if nothing had happened. But this wild exhibition of rejoicing was not all; for a chosen few of Heinrich's friends, and for Heinrich himself, the fatted calf had been killed, and the little parlour at the Mill had seldom presented such a scene of sumptuous festivity. Lisette and her husband-they had been married a few weeks before-had come over; she looked very buxom and fat, and much the same as she had always done.

They drank Heinrich's health and knocked glasses; and Rosa, bringing in the meat,

L

and handing it round from guest to guest, found her glass in contact with Heinrich's, and knocked among the rest. They ate and drank, and were satisfied; and then old Mässinger, growing merry with his good cheer, rose and once more proclaimed Heinrich's health in a parting glass, and wound up with an unintelligible speech about his return and his betrothal. The speech was drowned in a burst of shouting and applause; and again Rosa found her glass touching Heinrich's, and this time he swung his own against hers with such force that the wine was spilled.

At last the feast was over; Lisette and her husband drove off in their comfortable waggon; the guests dispersed to their homes; and Rosa and Frau Mässinger were the only ones left in the room that had so lately been the scene of such noisy festivity. Rosa knew

that there was no rest for her until everything had been cleared away; nothing was to be left for the morning. On the morrow the mill-wheel would be rushing again with

its usual roar and splash, and all the wheels in the busy house would be set in motion.

At length she slunk up to bed tired and weary. It had been a happy day, to hereven though she were to lose Heinrich it had been a happy day-for there had been looks and words in it that were never to be forgotten. Her little casement window was open, and she closed it; the wind was rustling among the trees in the wood, and the moon that was high in the heavens made the shadows of the tall stems look almost ghostly. There was no chirping of birds, none of those sounds of life that make woods in day-time so full of charm and mystery. The wild cry of the screech-owl echoed in the silence, and rung in Rosa's ear with a kind of superstitious dread. Suddenly she thought she heard her name called; with that sort of mysterious fear which belongs to her race, she fancied it in some way connected with the cry of the night-bird, and she almost held her breath for awe.

But again she heard it-this time un

mistakeably plainly, and the voice was one she knew. She got up again and opened the latticed window and looked out. The moon had just passed behind a cloud, and everything was very dark indeed; but she fancied that below in the courtyard she could distinguish Heinrich's figure.

'Down through the mill,' said a muffled voice; and Rosa, with her heart full of fear, drew on her clothes, fastened her loose bodice, and crept stealthily down the steep ladder, past the roaring machinery which had begun its work again, and out at last at the mill door into the courtyard.

'I must be off early,' said Heinrich, ‘and I knew I shouldn't see you again, for the mother will be stirring in the morning, and I could not well speak with you then.' He had his arm round her waist as he spoke, and she looked up at him with tearful beseeching eyes.

6 If I could but come too!' she said.

'You can't do that, Rosa, but I'll be back again for the betrothal before long; the old

father little thought how near the bride was!'

Rosa tried to smile, but it was a very small and unsuccessful effort. And when do you think you will be back again?' she said. Her tears were now falling fast; with her long dishevelled hair and pale face, she would have done for a picture of a Magdalene. Heinrich tried to comfort her; talked to her of days that were to be when he came back again, and pushing back the long plaits that had been unfastened for the night, he told her that she must give him one of them as a sort of pledge, so that he might have something of his little Rosa's with him at all times. What would she not have given him? She had thought of the bright gold piece, wrapped up in a corner of her box, but that was now not hers to give. She had already vowed its use elsewhere; but it pleased her that she could give him her hair, and it pleased her still more that he had asked for it. He took out his pocket-knife and cut off a rich black lock and placed it in his bosom.