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Copyright, 1894, by
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.
HE little adventure here
recorded differs from those
which appear in the ordi-
nary goblin-tale in that it
did not happen at the con-
ventional and mysterious
midnight hour, but rather in broad day-
light. I am able to give not only the
year, but the very day of its occurrence
—the 16th of July, 1885. Upon the
IOth, I had taken my degree at Leipzig,


and immediately afterward I went to
visit the two dear old people—an
A uncle and an aunt—who had
\e adopted me upon the early death
of my parents, in order that under
their roof I might recover from the
fatigue attendant upon my promotion.
They lived in Dresden, and I need not
tell you that they received me with
all the honors of a conqueror. Never-
theless, in spite of all their care I
continued nervous and pale, and after
a few days my aunt declared there
must be something positive done to
rouse me from my lassitude. Nothing
could be more salutary in such a case
than a stay among the woods and
mountains. Accordingly, they resolved
to send me into the Saxon Switzer-
land. The “natural method” of re-
storation I wholly approved; only as to
the where, I opposed them. At this
midsummer season no nook or corner
of that region was safe from the incur-




2
Sions of health-seekers and tourists, so
that a comfortable resting-place, away
from the throng, was hardly to be
hoped for.
As soon as my aunt disclosed her
plan, there rose before me the memory
of a certain quiet little place, not far
distant, which I had frequently visited
as a student in the old IDresden holi-
days, a pretty little inn upon the right
bank of the Elbe, standing somewhat
elevated in the midst of
gardens, and not over
a thousand paces from
Loschwitz. It has now
villa, which I saw to my
sorrow when I recently



3
had occasion to pass that way. At that
time, however, the hostelry was kept
by a young married pair with whom
I was on friendly terms, for I was
confessedly prepossessed by the sturdy
manliness of the husband and the grace
of his trim young wife. Moreover, I
had found their wine to my taste; and
§§§§§§§§
I was especially fond, on moonlight
nights, of the quiet of a particular bal-
cony which was built out over the
winding river-road.
It was truly a hostelry of the old type,
frequented only by staid Burger fami-
lies who drank there the famous B/ilm-
chen coffee, and by occasional passing
pedestrians. For the couple were
already well enough off to regard with
disfavor any enlargement of their busi-
4.
ness which involved conformity to the
then rapidly-increasing elegance of
style.
It is true I did not then know
whether my friends were prepared for
lodgers; but I felt sure that they would
not refuse me a bed in some chamber
of the old house. So, walking-stick in
hand, I trudged along the river-road.
During the two years since I had
last looked about me here nothing had
altered. Scarcely one of the familiar
farm-houses had received so much as a
fresh lime-wash, or a new arbor among
the tall bushes that thrust their blossom-
ing tinges above the garden hedge. The
road by the river was but little traveled,
for the local traffic was carried on
above, upon the country road behind
the houses; and in the deep, pervading
stillness the only sound which accom-
panied me was the gentle plash of
the waves as they came rippling
in upon the pebbly beach. Even

5
in the house at which I stayed my
steps everything seemed exactly as of
old. I mounted the same weather-
beaten stone stairs to the little grated
door which, if one only knew its pecu-
liar working, could be opened from
without as well. The narrow path that
led through the inn garden was
quite as neglected and over-
grown as ever. Only the
patrons and a few regu-
lar guests of the house
º knew of this entrance.
Zºº Strangers came in at the
$º upper one. As I recog-
id nized a familiar face among the
guests who sat there, and did not wish
to betray my presence, I went cautiously
around to the back of the house. There
I met the old Ursula, a fixture in the
family and my especial patroness. She
gave me a joyful greeting as to one long
absent; and as I made known that my
first want was not meat and drink, but






6
rather a word with the landlord, she
showed me into the family sitting-room
upon the upper floor, and then ran hur-
riedly down stairs to summon her mas-
ter and mistress, who just at that hour
were busy in the storehouse, which was
built out at one side. I had time to
look about me a little in this apartment,
into which I had not before set foct.
It was fitted up with old furniture
N Wº W ſº
: ſºſ
A. C., fa |
and was extremely neat, with pots of
flowers upon the window-sills and
beautiful roses in a vase on the table in











7
front of a sofa covered with black hair-
cloth ; a canary bird hung in a cage by
an open window, before which , the
dark foliage of a chestnut-tree waved
gently in the evening wind. Upon the
wall, above the sofa, hung, in their tar-
nished gold frames, three life-sized
at the left, that of a
stately man in the costume of twenty
family portraits
years ago; opposite him, in the elabo-
rate finery of that time, a well-to-do
woman, holding upon one arm an infant
laced in embroidered swaddling clothes;
between them hung the picture of a
young girl just blossoming into woman-
hood, dressed in the style of the first
Empire, which attracted me more than
the other two. Not by any singular
beauty—the face, which was turned full
toward the beholder, was a trifle too
round, and the little turned-up nose,
too, and the pouting mouth did not cor-
respond exactly to my ideal of a charm-
ing, girlish head. But the eyes, large
8
and black, with long lashes, had such a
touchingly innocent and yet at the
same time suggestively severe expres-
sion, that they completely bewitched
me. She was clad in a white gown,
adorned with a border of blue em-
broidery, and belted closely below her
young bosom. Her beautiful slender
throat was bare, as were also the charm-
ing arms, over which she had thrown a
thin red scarf. About her head clus-
tered short, brown curls; it was a so-
called Titian head. In her hand she
held a full-blown rose, and upon her
slender finger was a golden circlet with
a heart-shaped stone.
I had been gazing for fully ten min-
utes upon this dear being, who had long
ago disappeared from earth, when the
door opened and the landlord entered,
and behind him his little wife, carrying
in her arms a year-old child. They
welcomed me most heartily, chid me
for staying so long away, and showed
9
me the pretty doll which heaven had
sent in the meantime to crown their
wedded bliss. Everything, in fact,
had thriven these two years; a little
vineyard which they cultivated had
grow n very
Yº: Hºſ \, profitable;
& * \º
2. §:
ºr ſº avº's the patron-
C §§ Çs
$º age of the inn
had increased
º to such an extent that
they had been forced to build a spacious
garden-hall, in which even weddings
and family fêtes were wont to be cele-
brated.
But this very prosperity of the worthy
pair drew a cross through my plans, for
I found no longer here the hoped-fo,
quiet and seclusion. And as I ven-
tured to put the question whether I
could find a quiet lodging for a few
weeks under their roof, the hostess ex-
plained that unfortunately it was not to
be had. “They had fitted up a nursery







IO
for the child under the mansard roof;
two other rooms were occupied by a
man and his wife from the city, with a
sickly lad, who was supposed to be
recovering in the country air, but who
often, in the night, disturbed their sleep
by his crying or coughing ; so that I
was not likely to find in the only
available room, rest, either day or night.
They were uncommonly sorry, and
if they had dreamed of my coming they
would not have taken these strangers.
The husband corroborated all this, yet
seemed to be considering whether some
expedient could not be hit
upon, and at length said,
as I, with a Sup- e
pressed sigh, seized once
more my hat and stick:




II
“No, Riekchen, we must not let the
Herr Professor go away from here
and find himself no more comfortable
in a strange house. There is still the
garden-house of Aunt Blandine. To
be sure, it is many years since anyone
lived there; but if the dust were swept
out and fresh curtains put up—the Herr
Professor is only particular about hav-
ing some very quiet corner—his meals
could be served him in the front
room, if he did not choose to come over
so here. The back room
; : could be used as a bed-
room, and he
could have the
whole garden to
himself.
“What are you
thinking of,hus-
band 2 ” put
- in the little
woman, with a gesture of
reproof, while her eyes






I 2
§ gave him an expressive sign.
“That is clearly impossible !”
Here she stepped close to him
and whispered a few words, shaking
her head the while, as over an unheard-
of piece of presumption.
Her husband only laughed good-
humoredly, gave her a little slap upon
her plump shoulders, and said, turning
to ille :
“These women-folk are all alike ;
even the most sensible among them
will let themselves be made fools of by
some idle tale or other. You see, Herr
Professor, the old people hereabout
say that it is not quite canny in the little
house over yonder; and the gossiping
young people follow their example.
Yet no one has ever seen any-
thing amiss. And suppose
Aunt Blandine does go sport-
ing about, what of it, Riek-
chen The Herr I’rofessor
himself must be the judge


I 3
whether it would be disagreeable if a
spruce young woman should pay him a
visit occasionally. There she hangs
over the sofa. Does she look as if she
made it her sport to strike terror into
peaceable folk? Aunt Blandine,
#8 ſº know Herr
Cl
you must
Professor—” Here Ursula
interrupted him with
the a n - PZ nouncement
Sº, (SS
§º ter m a SO In
SP *
him about the
That concerned
that the mas-
wished to see
new wash-house.
the housewife as well; and the two
left me alone with the old woman, to
whom the landlord gave the necessary
directions about my quarters. I asked
if she knew anything about Aunt Blan-
dine. No, she only knew that the
young mamselle had lived in the little
house opposite. People declared that
she still showed herself there some-
times. But she had yet to meet any
one who himself had seen her, and for










I4
her part, she put no faith in it at all ;
for the Fräulein had such a good, pious
face, and had never committed any
crime that would prevent her resting
quietly in her grave.
Then we two went down the steps
and through the garden toward a little
side gate, which opened upon a narrow
alley sloping gradually up from the
river-road, and which as a rule remained
closed. Over there, directly opposite,
the same key
unlocked a
similar gate,
through which
one entered a
n e g lected
flower-garden.
I had not ob-
served it be-
fore, as I had
never spent much time out
there. From the street below one could
nºt look into it. The hedge which


I 5
surrounded it had shot
up too high, and the
lower entrance, a grated
door at the head of a
flight of steps, was so
bushes that one might
easily pass it by unnoticed.
As I now trod this quiet enclosure
which, about a hundred feet square,
rose in a gentle slope toward the high-
road at the summit, an astonishing
sight disclosed itself.
Here, as if for ten years no human
being had set foot within, there bloomed,
in incredible profusion, a wild luxuri-
ance of the most beautiful
§
heliotrope in a
confused tangle;
!)YNº.
º
and in the sº § #}
I6
NS!












midst of these, like white islands ris-
ing out of a sea of bloom, little groups
of unusually tall-stemmed lilies, whose
heavy fragrance was wafted to me
above all the rest. The forest of
flowers was just then lighted up with
the glow of the set-
ting Sun, and as N/
º
which
closed
the gar-
den in on all sides, had grown so thick
that nothing was to be seen of the
neighboring houses, the impression
which the little garden made upon me
was delightful as a fairy tale, yet at the
same time almost oppressive.
tºr. The Frau let everything
* grow wild out
here, as God made
§ it, the old woman ex-
# plained, while she







17
bent aside the branches of some tall
rose-bushes to open a path for me.
There was never time to clean it up
properly and keep it in order. To hire
a gardener especially for that would
º, hardly pay, for the flowers which
this uncared-for piece of ground
yielded at all seasons were sent to
the city twice a week and sold ad-
vantageously to dealers. When the
paths grew too dense, the landlord
would come and let in the light
with his large clipping-shears.
Long years before, the father of
the present owner had used often
to smoke his pipe up there in front
of the little house on pleasant
evenings. Perhaps some spirit of
the night had at some time appeared
Ş to him there and made it disagreeable
* for him. But it could scarcely have
been the maiden Blandine.
And now I saw for myself the in-
significant garden-house in which I

I8
was to lodge : a little, gray, four-cor-
nered wooden box, under a widely-
projecting, pointed, shingle roof; on the
front side, the door, and a single win-
dow closed by a shutter, which, at some
time, must have been painted green.
At each side there was also a square
window, guarded by a stout wooden
shutter—everything beaten by wind and
weather. Under the eaves were several
sparrows' nests whose occupants, in evi-
dent indignation, flew out with loud
cries and twitterings as
the old woman turned
the door upon its rusty
hinges and we stepped
across the threshold.
A damp smell of
mould greeted us; but
when we had flung open
all these shutters, the low room did look
in the least uninhabitable. A Rococo
commode against one wall; a garden
bench in the centre of the room,


I9
grouped together, several old chairs and
a table over which still lay a faded cover
of a gay pattern ; at one window a small
ornamental table inlaid with a mosaic in
wood, and upon it yet a little work-
basket with a piece of embroidery be-
gun. The prettiest feature was a half
dozen large flower-pieces in flat, wood-
en frames. They were mostly roses and
lilies by some painstaking hand, drawn
rather stiffly, yet with a manifest feeling
for form, upon pale, gray paper, and
carefully mounted. In the midst of
these modest pictures I was surprised
by the sight of a large map of central
Europe, upon which the route from
Dresden to Moscow was traced by a
blood-red line ; and among these, for a
garden-house, singular wall decorations,
hung a tiny miniature in a gold frame,
representing a young man in an un-
familiar uniform, but with the face so
faded, or worse, obliterated, that save
the brown spots which took the place
2O
of eyes, and a fine &
black mustache,
nothing of his fea-
tures could be recog-
nized. -
The old woman opened the S.
low side-door, and I stepped into a dark
chamber, in which light first found its
way when I threw open the shutters of
the single small window. Now I saw a
narrow bedstead in the corner; next, a
tall-legged washstand with a toilet set of
Meiszener porcelain; and, on the wall
above it, an engraving after Carlo Dolce's
Acce //omo.
“Here the Herr Professor will have
5
to sleep,” said Ursula, “if it is not too
narrow and uncomfortable for him.
The straw bed and mattress are still
good for use ; the other things we will
bring up and whatever else is needed,
in order that a Christian man may have
his regular attendance. The Herr Pro-
fessor need have no fear that he will be



2 I
disturbed here, if he is spook-
proof-which is, after all, a stupid
º) superstition, although many a one
§ whom I know would not spend
*º the night here for all the gold
in the world, because the
Fräulein is said to have slept
in that very bed. But that was
long ago, and the dear God she
prayed to every night would not
Send such a poor soul wandering
about, only to frighten peaceable
people. No, that He surely would
not; for what purpose could He have
in doing it?”
Whereupon this enlightened old
person left me, to provide further for
my wants over at the inn; and at the
expiration of half an hour I was quite
settled. The bed was made up freshly
with pillows and coverlids; water had
been drawn from a little open well
which stood near the garden-house,
hidden by an elder-bush and upon




22
the table in the front room was spread
the frugal supper which I had cr-
&S
dered. For I was so pleased with my
strange new quarters that I could not
make up my mind to go over to the
inn, which was lively with guests, as
was evident from the lights that streamed
across to me. The old woman came
once more, to wish me a good-night in
the name of the host and hostess, and
to excuse them from coming in person,
they were so much in demand.
She removed the dishes and left
me alone with my bottle of
* Mosel wine. .* gº
And now, for the first time, I
roamed over my little domain,
through the narrow, overgrown




23
paths, between the flowering shrubs;
and then I strolled back to an arbor
which stood in one corner of the garden
above, upon a level with the garden-
house, and was thickly overgrown with
morning-glory vines, so that a deep
darkness and stifling sultriness reigned
within. I accordingly placed a chair
which I found there, at the entrance,
lighted my pipe, and sat, I knew not
how long, in blissful contemplation un-
der the star-lit sky; while the night
flowers began to distill their heavy fra-
grance, and the glowworms tinkled here
and there in the long grass. When I
looked away beyond my little kingdom I
saw, behind the tall bushes on its lower
border, the broad, quietly-flowing river;
and now and then a little vessel or a
§§
§ º
§§º




light skiff glided by, throwing across the
dark waves a passing gleam from a
lantern on board. A steamboat, too,
with music, floated past and disappeared
behind the tops of the willows, toward
the town, like some fantastic dream-
picture. Quite late, the sickle of the
waning moon appeared hanging poised
above the wide landscape. The plain,
opposite, with the houses on the farther
bank, were veiled in mist, and only
solitary lights which glimmered across
showed that there were living beings in
that vague distance.
The air had by degrees grown cooler
after the day's heat, and I drank it in
with such a feeling of delight, that it
struck eleven, and then twelve, from
the church-tower at Loschwitz, before I
could make up my mind to retire. Of
any of the horrors of the ghost-hour I
could not find the least trace, and even
when I stretched myself upon my bed
my every thought was far removed from
25
anything unearthly. I
had left the little win-
dow open, and before
*:S it the branches of the
§§
}' tall shrubs waved gen-
§) thy in the night wind.
In cne of the neighbor-
ing gardens a nightingale
warbled. I listened awhile, and
then fell asleep. In the night I
wakened once or twice from disturbed
dreams, roused by the varied noises
which belong to a summer's night,
the scream of the night-hawk on the
hunt for smaller prey; over my head
the stealthy creeping of a cat or the
scratching of a marten in wait for the
sparrows under the roof; in the gray
morning the rattling of wheels and the
cracking of whips upon the near high-
road, still no sound from the Super-
natural world.
So it chanced that I did not awaken
until late in the morning, when the old





26
her head in
anxious to
er anything
happened to
the night. I
assured her
Fräulein had
me no visit,
might set the
at rest upon
After break-
myself lured
g a r d e n ,
with dew,
it lay in
I resisted the
long enough
or three let-
time, the
coolness had
and up on
woman stuck
at my door,
l, now wheth-
dreadful had
me during
laughingly
th a t t he
vouch safed
a n d s h e
Frau within
that point.
fast I found
out into the
spark ling
even where
shadow ; but
temptation
to write two
ters. Iły this
m or n in g
v an is he d,
the flowers which now
stood in the broad sunſhine there de-
scended such a scorching glow that it

27
was advisable to stay in the little
house and while away the hottest hours
behind the half-closed shutters in golden
sunlight.
I took up a book that I had brought
with me—Hermann Linng's poems.
They had but recently appeared, and
were, as yet, little known in North
Germany. A South German student-
friend had recommended them to me
and had given me his copy. As an
historian, he thought I could not afford
to miss an acquaintance with the new
order of historical lyric which this poet
handled in quite an original way. I
found this opinion soon confirmed by
my reading; and I felt that here was
one of the few great lyric geniuses,
which are as rare as black diamonds,
and far more prized.
Upon that forenoon I opened the
volume at random, and found in it a
most intimate sympathy with the mys-
terious life of nature and the heart of
28
f tº
g ..Q. tº
II] all. Again Q9.º and again I
read the Songs, so irresistible in
their simplicity: “Soſter Grows My
Slumber,” “Cold and Snowy Blows
the Wind,” “The Song of the Fish-
wife,” “Old Dreams Return,” “To
my Pompeian 5 Lamp,”— or by
(<
)
whatever other titles these touch-
ingly beautiful.ſº
tions of a hº
glowing with §
were called.
took, at once,
inner revela-
|m a n soul 5
poetic fire,
A n d the y
such a strong
hold upon me that to this day
I know half the little book by
heart and often repeat song after song
to myself upon my lonely walks. As I
was situated at that time, the following
sonnet touched me with its especial
charm, “Midday Magic,'...it was eIl-
titled, and although it is well known to
most of us, I cannot forbear to tran-













29
scribe it, as it corresponds so exactly
with my mood upon that day:
The heat of midday lies, a-quiver with delight,
Spread deep in sultry stillness over vale and
height.
A solitary wood-bird drums 'mid yonder firs;
Down in the gorge, distant and dull, the saw-
mill whirs.
The brook slips swiftly by, toward shadºws
cool and dim,
The flowers, athirst, bend looks of longing
after him— *
Their leaves beseeching spread. Anon, a
butterfly,
ſº
* Nº)
§:
#5)
S)N as Drunken with blossom-brews, on
gº C.
º
ſº
º
Growsy wing goes by.
A thatch of willow boughs
above his little boat,
G)\e *
Ş
v 6% | The ferry-man has built; and
ſº "there he sits to note
How, mirrowed on the tide, the changing
cloud-forms float. -
This is the hour: the reeds make moaning,
sad to tears—
Startling the fisher's sleep ; a laugh the hunter
hears ;
And to the shepherd's eye, gray rock like
gold appears.




3O
When I had finished reading this I
closed my eyes and abandoned myself
for a while to the sweet sense of lyric
enchantment which swelled in my
veins like new wine. Then I rose
and crossed the threshold of my tiny
house. There lay the world before
me—my own, green, peaceful world—
quivering with delight under the same
sultry brilliancy which the verses pic-
tured. Butterflies hung as though in-
toxicated over the cups of the lilies and
roses; soft bird-voices were all around
me; below, in the river, the waves hur-
3I
:
:
:

ried by, as though in haste to escape
into the shade, out of reach of the sun-
beams. All was indeed magical At
last, when my head began to ache, I
went slowly, still repeating the verses
to myself, toward the vine-covered
arbor.
A little bench stood within, and I
threw myself down upon it, my book
still in my hand, but with-
| out reading further, as
the darkness prevented
me. I can still recall
plainly the singular
thing which happened
S-
me as I looked out
fºcm my green hiding-
place upon the Scintillating
brilliancy of noontide. It was as
though the ether above me were a
crystal sea, and I sat low within its
depths, so that the fluent waves rolled
and eddied above me and trickled
down in bright pearls upon the growth




& 32
at the sea's bottom. I myself was im-
prisoned in a deep grotto, in which
breathing was as laborious as in a
diving-bell; and still this confinement
produced no discomfort; on the con-
trary, I was penetrated by a secret
sense of well-being, such as I used to
feel as a child when we played at hide-
and-seek, and I crouched in Some Snug
corner where I was sure I should not
be speedily found. r
Only, my eyes ached when I had
stared too long into the waving, ethereal
light. I had to close them for a few
moments, and in the purple darkness
about me I harkened to the humming,
"whirring noises which thronged in upon
my ear through the vines of the arbor—
the rustling and whispering of the
leaves in the hedge-row, the buzzing
and chirping of the insects, and the
other mysterious noises which are only
perceptible when all human sounds are
hushed and the day seems to stand
33
still for an instant, at its height, and
hold its breath.
But when I opened my eyes again I
beheld a strange sight.
At the other end of the garden, as
though she had just stepped through
(Gº -
(CMD)
sº
\ ||
Pāli
ſ
the lower gate, walked a bright, slen-
der, female figure, slowly, and quite
absorbed in herself, the face hidden
under a large straw hat of an old-fash-
ioned shape. She was evidently no
stranger here, for she found the narrow
paths, although they were smothered
in the thick growth of shrubbery, and
passed through them, bending back
their sprays without effort or haste.
Sometimes she stooped, to the right or






34
left, as if to ascertain carefully how it
fared with various plants. When she
reached the end of the path, she turned
into the next one running parallel with
it, but she was always in such a direc-
tion from me that I was able to catch
only occasional glimpses of her profile
and a curl of her brown hair which
blew out over the brim of her straw hat.
The image of this maiden-fiend of the
garden, in the midst of this flowing
field of lilies and roses, was so lovely
that I kept quite still, lest I should
frighten away this charming visitor by
my sudden appearance.
Before a spray of hundred-leaved
roses the figure paused for a while. I
saw her stoop and bury her face in the
open blossoms. Then she raised her
head and broke off a half-blown bud
with one little hand, which was partly
covered by a black knitted mit. As all
this took place very near to my arbor,
I could observe more exactly what she
35
wore. No, I had not been deceived ;
it was a gown, girdled high, below the
bosom, similar to the one I had seen
yesterday in the picture of the young
girl hanging in my host's sitting-room.
Along the edge, bordering the low
neck, ran the blue embroidery ; the
same red scarf was thrown about the
shoulders; the arms were covered only
as far as the elbows with the coquettish
white sleeves. And now, as she walked
along and looked up at the garden-
house, I confess that for an instant a
slight shudder passed over me.
It was the same somewhat
round face under the fair
forehead, with its shadow-
> ing brown curls, and
the great dark eyes
peered about with the
! same look of intense
melancholy.
The singular sensation did
not last long. I knew not why,






36
but as this unknown stood before me,
in the ſairest bloom of youth and health,
a. deep sympathy stirred in my breast: a
certain curiosity as well, as to what were
the circumstances surrounding this
young creature, who walked about here
in full daylight, in the costume of my
grandmother's time, as though she had
just run away from a masquerade. And
the similarity to the portrait ! How
had she found her way into the garden
through the shore-gate of which old
Ursula said the key had been lost?
I had not much time to consider
these riddles, for the slender figure had
already reached the top of the garden-
hill and was approaching, always with
dallying step, along the upper walk. I
thought it would be the proper thing
for me to walk out and introduce my-
self to her as the lord of this little do-
main. But when I rose from the
bench I saw her start back suddenly,
stare for an instant into the gloom of
37

the arbor, and then ſy
toward me with the
Aſh) half stified cry: “Ed-
ward Have you come
at last P”
VAN
W - - She stretch-
. §§ G - dº) Ö ed out her
/\ a rms, her
tº V/ curls fluttered,
Sº her young bosom
heaved convulsively ;
*Y(X, suddenly she stopped
S. 5) as though turned to
stone ; her arms sank
at her side ; an un-
speakably sad expression appeared upon
her face, from which all color had
fled, and two great tears trickled from
under the long lashes.
“Pardon me, sir!” she faltered, al-
most inaudibly. “I thought another
might have been seated there, and I
suffered myself to be deceived by the
uncertain light—again. I beg you will
38
excuse me; I will not disturb you
further.”
I had come to the entrance cf the
arbor, as she involuntarily drew a step
backward.
“Not you, but I, Fräulein, have to
ask pardon,” I said. “I am only
quartered here since yesterday, a guest.
You, however, belong doubtless to the
house; and if you do not wish intrud-
ers in the garden, I will at once with-
draw.”
She looked at me unmoved while I
was speaking. Her features had re-
gained their composure; but a strange,
restless look in her eyes caused me
to suspect that this delightful being
was possibly not in her right mind—

which would account for her singular
style of dress.
“How could I drive you away ?”
she returned, in a soft, lovely voice.
“I have no longer any right to this
place; I must be content if they allow
me to come back now and then and
look after the flowers which I so loved.
But I have even forfeited the right to care
for them. They ſº
care, either. gº
do not need my
º: Only see how
* they become
lux u ri a n t §
without me ! Heaven sure-
ly w a t c he s i. Over them.”
She sighed, and held the rose pressed
closely to her little nose. Then, after
a brief pause:
“So you are living
here now. It
place, is it not?
I, too, lived
here until I
could do so no
4O





longer. But
of that we
w i l l n ot
speak. Each
one has his
own destiny; and to each that destiny
comes, out of his own heart.”
We were silent then for a little. The
visit seemed still more strange to me;
and though there was sense and reason
in all that she said, it flashed through
my mind again,_She is not quite
right.
“Will you not step into the arbor,
Fräulein P” I said at length. But she
waved her refusal with a hasty move-
ment of the hand. “No, no ’’ she
whispered. “Within there is a host of
memories — it is not good to waken
them. Some time that will be differ-
ent, when I shall not have to sit there
alone any more ; and I shall laugh and
cry in the beautiful twilight within.
For it cannot last much longer; it has

4I
already lasted far too long, and
sometimes I think I may have aſſº
waited in vain. But you too
believe, do you not, that fidelity
is no mere empty ſancy P. One can
practice it through life; and if I
have practiced it, why should ancther
grow tired of it? Ah, yes | tired ; that
I too am, often enough, as one grows.
tired of long sleep and sad dreams.
If you will permit me, I will sit
down here for a moment; then
I must go away directly.”
The chair which upon the previous
night had stood in front of the arbor,
stood yet in the same place. The
young figure sank down upon it,
crossed her little feet, which, in their
white satin shoes, peeped out from be-
neath the tucks of her short muslin
gown, and drew a deep breath, as
though her walk had exhausted her.
As she did so, she seemed completely
to forget my presence; for she busied






42
herself with her toilet—took off her hat,
pushed up her sleeves to the shoulders,
and between whiles inhaled the fra-
grance of the rose with an expression
of yearning desire.
For the sake of saying something,
for the stillness oppressed me, I asked
whether the flower-pieces in the gar-
den-house were her work. She nodded
abstractedly, and suddenly looked up at
me and inquired : “Were you ever in
Russia P”
I replied in the negative. “It’s a
pity!” she said. “I should like to
know whether it is really as cold there
as people say. Oh warmth, warmth !
Everyone longs to be back in the
warmth, does he not P and to.
nestle close &º, against a warm

he art— C.' but this.
is no z COInVer-
* A Zº *
Saty On for a
young girl who ought to be coldly dig-
nified in her behavior. Well, it is all.
43
indifferent to me. I am old enough to
allow myself to be governed by no one.
You too, sir, I can easily see, find my
dress peculiar. Of what consequence is
it how a person dresses, if only he can
conceal his inmost thoughts. No, do
not question me ! If
S O II) e O In e re-
turns, as he has
surely promised
before the jealous
and incredulous people and
y put them all to shame.
And now—/Dieze votes bêmisse /?’
She rose quietly, saluted me with a
gentle inclination of the head, and
made as though she would go.
“May I ask a favor of you ?” I
cried. “Give me the flowers which
you have in your hand. I would like
to keep them in memory of this delight-
ful acquaintance.”
A swift look of suspicion flashed at




44
me from the black eyes. “I regret,”
she said, “that I cannot grant you that.
The giving of a rose is not without
significance. Do you understand the
language of sº flowers? No
matter; one should give heed to one's
self. For so it begins, and who knows
where it may end. First the flower,
then the wreath. And even though
you should not tell anyone about it,
Jºe would find it out; for I could
lm i de º: nothing
from him, if he should come.
And you, too, think he will come, don't
you, however long the way may be P’’



45
“Certainly,” I assured her, now fully
convinced that my suspicion had been
correct. I was overcome by a painful
feeling of sympathy for the poor young
creature, whose face gleamed brightly
with sudden joy as I affirmed thus
positively my belief in the return of a
vanished happiness.
“I thank you,” she said heartily;
“you have done me much good. The
others shun me; they think there is
something wrong with my brain. But
it is only the fever of longing. I must
cool my forehead, and then I shall be
quite reasonable again. Farewell !”
“No ’’ she added quickly, as I
made a move to accompany her. “You
must not walk with me. If they should
see us they might think ill of me.
Shall you stay here for some time
longer ? Perhaps I can come back
again about this time, if I am allowed.
Oh, the world is fair for those who are
happy But I slall be so again, some-
46
time; I have no fear of that.
They who endure shall be
Crowned.”
She gave me a friendly nod, 2.
put on her hat again, and went softly
away down the tangled paths between
the flower-beds. I saw her white neck
gleam above the tall rose-bushes, and
would have followed her in spite of
her prohibition, but some unaccount-
able force chained me to the spot. For
an instant my attention was diverted
by a noise that sounded close to the
arbor in the hollow alley between my
garden and the inn.
When I turned my eyes toward the
spot where the strange Fräulein had dis-
appeared between the rose-bushes, there
was nothing to be seen of her bright
figure. Only, the tall lilies swayed, as
if a passing bird had brushed them
lightly with his wings.




I cannot describe the peculiar mood
which was on me. I suddenly felt as
lonely as if I had lost something dearly
loved. The gentle voice continued
to sound in my ears; wherever I
looked I fancied I should meet the
glance of the soft, dark eyes, turned
shyly, yet trustfully, upon me. I seated
myself in the chair which she had left,
and gazed upon the spot where she had
vanished from my sight. Little by
little I ceased thinking even, and lapsed
into a condition of waking dreaminess
which was indescribably blissful.
A firm, manly step upon the gravel
path roused me from my abstraction.
My young friend, the landlord, stood
before me.
“Good day, Herr Professor ” he

48
*
cried, and stretched out his hand to
me. “I only wanted to inquire how
you are coming on. Are your board,
lodging, and service satisfactory—has
the heavy fragrance of the flowers
given you a headache—or did any
ghostly appearance
disturb your
sleep 2 My
wife would
have paid you
a call before
this, but she
could not get
away from the
she will allow herself to wait upon you.”
I assured him that things were going
on admirably with me, and I could
wish nothing better than to dream away
a couple of weeks in this blossoming
hermitage. Of what had just occurred,
I said not a word.


49
“Do you see now that I was
right?” exclaimed the
© wife's fable. It is true,
when she was yet alive,
poor Aunt Blandine ! she may
easily have seemed to timid people
like a departed soul that still hovers
about awhile before it finds its everlast-
ing rest. Even in her happier days
there was a sort of isolation about her.
She did not appear like other fresh,
young girls; though she was never ill,
and could be noisy with the rest, and
loved to sing and to dance. But my
grandmother, who lived to a great age—
the woman with the infant whom you
have seen in the painting over yonder,
and who was her aunt, for I am only
Aunt Blandine's grandnephew—well,
she has often told me about her. She




50
had always been a peculiar
child, and as she grew up,
liked to do nothing better than
to read, or paint flowers, or
sing at the clavichord; and
every one was fond of her.
Well, of course, there was not
wanting to her any number of
suitors; but when she arrived
at the age of nineteen, she
gave ear to one of them, a
young officer; and as he had
some property, and she came
of a well-to-do family, there
was nothing to prevent their
marrying. Then the war of the
Emperor Napoleon against Russia
came athwart their purposes.
It was evening, they say, when
the young girl had just arrayed
herself for a ball, and was
waiting for her betrothed to
come and escort her to the
dance. Instead, he came with



5.I
the intelligence that he was obliged to
go away very early the next morning
with his regiment, which was to join the
French army. That this put an end to
playing and dancing you may easily
imagine. Instead of going to the ball,
the young lovers went across into this
garden, and here they spent their last
evening alone together. One could
see them until midnight, walking, with
their arms around each other, up and
down between the flower-beds; and
there, in the arbor, the young soldier
took a heart-breaking farewell; for the
parents, when they at length came to
s, look after their daughter, found
§ the poor thing sunk upon a
2 bench as though in a swoon,
and had great trouble in bring-
ing her to again.”



52
“Upon the second day, however, she
had a great longing to be allowed to go
into the garden; and as she had such a
way with her that they could refuse her
nothing, the parents could not prevent
her fitting up the little garden-house as
a dwelling; and though they
might entreat or command,
she could not be induced to
go into society again.
Up here she would
stay and await her
lover's return.
“Here she sat to an
artist for the portrait
which you saw, in her ball-
dress, which she had worn
upon the evening of the
parting. Then he had made
a copy of the picture in min-
iature; this she sent to her dearest, as
he had already honored her with his
picture, you may have remarked it on
the wall of the little house. And there





53
*:
she sat and read, and sewed,
* and embroidered, living on-
N. upon the few letters
QZ which he was able to
send her while on
*
==
+:
the march. They
had a small stove
put up in the room,
and they carried her
food over to her. So she was
quietly contented and com-
plained about nothing, living
only from one letter to another.
The last came from Moscow, and
then no more. ISut hard though it was
for the lonely little fiancée, they did not
realize how she lived, day and night, in
anxiety and dread. Moreover, the par-
ents comforted her; the distance was so
great, the mails were probably snowed
under, she knew that he would remain
true to her and would return as soon as
the war was at an end, which indeed
could not long be postponed, for the





54
capital of the enemy had already been
taken by the besiegers.
“The news of the frightful conflagra-
tion did not alarm her. She had learned
that the French army, with all the allied
troops, had left Moscow and started on
the return march. And now, day after
day, she awaited the coming of her be-
loved, and every evening she put on her
white gown again. He should find her
once more in the same costume in which
he had last seen her.
“And then, in the newspapers, came
the shocking report of the retreat through
that icy, devastated land, and of the
terrible crossing of the Beresina. Of
–-III

55
all this they suffered her to learn noth-
ing; and as she lived so apart from
others, they were able to keep it from
her for a long while and leave her in
the dark. But one day, as her mother
came across to her—as she did twice
daily—she found the unhappy child
stretched upon the floor near her little
work-table, and in her hand a fragment
of newspaper which had been wrapped
around something. It contained a de-
scription of how the Saxon regiment, to
which her lover belonged, had sunk in
the raging stream and been swept away
by the ice-floes. It painted it in such
vivid colors, all the misery and despair
of their death, at the end of the fright-
ful exhaustion and sufferings from hun-
ger endured on the march, that another

56
than the tender-hearted bride might have
been overcome by horror. -
“From the serious illness which fol-
lowed upon this, she was restored again
to life, but it was no longer a natural
life. She went about like a shadow,
would say nothing beyond yes and no,
and they never heard her laugh again.
Of course they refrained from telling her
that her beloved was among those who
had perished; but she seemed to know
it, nevertheless—or perhaps she only
divined it from the fact that he never
returned to her. For nights, her mother
would often hear her weeping piteously
and calling his name. Although she
did not fully regain her reason, they al-
lowed her her liberty, and she would
walk up and down in the garden here

57
for hours at a time, watering the flow-
ers, cutting off the withered blossoms,
or would sit in the arbor and look out
Over the river.
“So the summer passed. She seemed
to be somewhat consoled, and her par-
ents began to hope that, in time, she
would recover from the severe shock
and be quite well again. But they were
disappointed. In the following Novem-
ber, when there had been a heavy frost
and the Elbe was thick with floating
ice, a singular unrest came over the
poor girl. Naturally, she was now liv-
ing once more in the house opposite.
But one night, her mother, who was a
light sleeper, heard the house-door open
and rose hastily, dressed, with a beat-
ing heart, and ran down the stairs. She
was just in time to see a white form
open the little grated door below and
vanish down the steps. “Blandine !”
she screamed, almost fainting with
fright; but gathering herself, she rushed
58
She was too late, how-
ever. The river, over
which a horrible storm
was raging, had already
swallowed up the poor
life. The second day, at
noon, the body, which had
drifted down under a cake of ice, was
drawn out at the bridge in Dresden.
It had on the white gown and other
ballroom finery l
in which she had ſº
wished to re-
ceive her belov-
ed. His picture she had hung about
her nec's : its colors were almost washed
9 sº- y * • &
• *… • ***) ) the Water.
“You can fancy,
Herr Professor,
what a profound
sensation this pitiful
º: story produced, and
* that there were not
º
------- 59





wanting superstitious natures who
thought they saw the good soul flitting
about up here is no wonder. But rea-
sonable persons, like ourselves, shrug
their shoulders at such imaginings.”
I took good care not to contradict
him. Not for the world would I have
desecrated this wonderful experience by
any vulgar chit-chat. In secret, I cher-
ished a hope that the visit would be re-
peated. But on the evening of that day
a heavy thunder-storm came on, fol-
lowed the next morning by a gray, set-
tled rain ; and when the air cleared
again, the weather continued raw and
disagreeable. During the fortnight which
I spent in my garden-house, the midday
vision never appeared again.
6o

gyman's daughter from Baden,
the sixth of fourteen children,
boys and girls, in varied succes-
sion. Although I could have found a
goodly number of living playthings at
home, I nevertheless chose for my favor-
ite doll a stranger child—the daughter
of our sexton—a puny little thing who
was neither very pretty nor very clever;
but the small creature somehow be-

63 *
witched me as soon as I knew her;
devote myself to her, would
take her walking, play with her,
)” and save for her all the choice
morsels from my own plate. They
" were not many, to be sure, for in a
parsonage so rich in children, Jack
Pinchpenny is steward;
but there came holidays
and birthdays,( :
and of what N
wee good things
fell to my share,
the little Lis-
beth—for So 2
my treas-
ll re W a S ºff
called—had to have the
larger half.
She was indeed a singular child,
different from my troop of romping
brothers and sisters, whose ways, man-










64
nerly and unmannerly, I knew by
heart.
She was just turned three, when my
father was transferred to the parish of
which her father was sexton. But she
engaged my attention at once—she had
such great brown eyes, and never
laughed or cried, but looked about her
as subdued and thoughtful as a grown
person. Yet she was bright and nim-
ble too, as a squirrel, when she ran
through the meadows in her scant little
skirts and bare brown feet, chasing the
butterflies. But when she had caught
one she would hold it care- -
º
fully in her tiny hand, and a 㺠sº
then suffer it to fly away § § º ;
º ſº sº
again. She would sit for §§
hours at a time on the door- º
§
step and watch the chickens “Gº
that ran peeping around her to pick
up the crumbs she threw them, or the
swallows as they darted about the
church roof, their wings glistening in












65
the sunshine. She had no brothers
or sisters with whom she could play,
and for inanimate toys she cared
nothing. Before I had known her
many days I became very fond of the
child. I, who at eleven could not live
without dolls, thought it a great pity
that she had none of her own; and ac-
cordingly, I presented her with one of
mine, whose hands and face I had
washed clean, and for which I had
made a new frock. I can see yet how
she regarded the pretty puppet admir-
ingly, nodded to me and flushed a lit-
tle; but my present she laid at her side
and did not further concern herself
with it. That annoyed me, for I had
taken no small credit to myself on the
score of my generosity and condescen-
sion. But I fancied her indifference
might, after all, be only embarrassment;
and perhaps she was not pleased with
the dress, which was not specially fine.
with a second one, however, on
66
which I had sewed some tinsel,
things went no better. I had to con-
clude that little Lisbeth was no lover of
dolls, and this weaned me from my
own. From that time, the child be-
came my doll; and I was not happy
unless I could hold her in my arms, or
clasp her wee hand and run about with
her.
To this her family consented readily
enough. Her mother had her hands full
in attending to their poor housekeeping,
and her father in cultivating their little
garden patch and feeding and milking
their one lean cow. This cow, too,
was a good friend of Lisbeth ; but the
child did not know what to do with the
great dumb beast, and was more at
home with the smaller ones in the
dooryard and upon the village street.
It was curious to see upon what
confidential terms she was with them
all, just as though she understood their
language. I came upon her sometimes,
67
•º * she was imitating the
Nº. voices of these different
creatures—the cooing of
Q
() : the doves, the cackling
0. ©
, ... of the hens, the hum of
•. * the bees, and the mani-
©
fold bird voices; if, how-
->=:-- ever, she became aware
that I was listening, she was silent at
OIlC62.
Human speech she learned later than
most children, and she made little use
of it; whereas my own brothers and
sisters prattled the livelong day. None
of my own family understood why I
preferred to steal away to the sexton's
child when I had a little time to my-
self. But one smile from Lisbeth as
she saw me coming, or one shy caress,
was sweeter to me than Sugarplums, or
a high mark at school.
When my darling was five years old,
her father bought a pair of rabbits, for
which he built a little hutch at the end







68
of the kitchen garden; he wished to
provide a cheap roast, every second
Sunday, with his dish of turnips and
cabbage, for otherwise little meat
would come upon his table. Now this
was a great boon for Lisbeth. All her
other pets would run away as soon as
they had snatched the food from her
hands; and cats and dogs, who are
greedy parasites, but withal, caressing
and sensitive to human tenderness, were
not tolerated in this small household.
But these sleek, silky-soft little gour-
mands, because they could furnish a
roast and were blessed with a numer-
ous progeny, engaged the Sexton's care
and attention. The task, of feeding
them was entrusted to Lisbeth, who
was not yet in school, and could wish

69
for no more pleasant employment. But
to eat them when a rabbit roast came
upon the table, she could in no way be
induced.
She was as confidential with these
new members of the family as with
everything else that crept or flew.
No prettier sight coul º
No prettier sight could ſº
be seen than was of
fered when this
small person open-
ed the grating of
the hutch, and the
whole nimble com-
pany rushed, crowd-
ing around her, rolling over each other,
nibbling at the little skirt, tumbling
on her small naked feet, and emitting
that piping, Squeaking sound which is
peculiar to these creatures when they
are hungry. Their little foster-mother
held a switch in her hand, with which
she warded off the more importunate
ones, giving them a gentle tap upon





7o
their smooth heads. Then she went
on to a low pen between the house and
garden, where the refuse from the
kitchen was thrown—cabbage stalks,
lettuce leaves, and whatever else she
had gathered from the houses of the
peasants, who gladly gave her what
they had to spare of such fodder, for
they were fond of the quiet child.
Now, this grave little person would
seat herself upon a hewn stump, and
keep watch for hours at a time while
her young charges were feeding. Now
and then, when one of them fell short,
or was pushed aside by its saucy fel-
lows, with a light tap of her whip she
would restore justice once more. Noth-
ing could lure her away from this oc-
cupation.
When the nibbling mouths were at
last satisfied, the little foster-mother
would liſt one of the flock by its soft
ears, place it in her lap, and gently
stroke its back or scratch it softly upon
71
the head; and so in turn all of the
Others, neglecting none. Whereupon,
she would gather her flock, with coax-
ing call and tap of the switch, and drive
it slowly back to the grated inclosure.
Between the wires she would thrust
Some juicy cabbage leaves, pom la
bonne ôouche, and stand watching the
young company munching contentedly.
Ah, she was a strange, sweet child,
this little Lisbeth !
“Dear,” I said to her once, “what
will you do when you have to go to
school P They will have to let you
take Haunesle’—this was the name of
her especial pet, a black rabbit with
white ears—“in your school-bag with
you, so that you can feed it with your
biscuits at recess time.”
The child looked at me with her

72
large, serious eyes, and said: “I would
rather not learn anything than to have
to go away from them.”
Poor little innocent . She little
dreamed that she would never study
upon any earthly school-bench.
But I beg your pardon if I prate too
garrulously of my childish recollections;
the end shall come now all the sooner.
One Monday morning in the spring
I drove with my father to see a brother
clergyman who had a little daughter
with whom I had formerly been the
best of friends. Now, after a two
years' separation, I was to spend the
entire day with her; but somehow the
prospect did not seem so very attrac-
tive. My friend had read a
variety of books in the \ | %
M \ | % /
\
meantime, and carried
her head quite high in
the air, for she fan-
cied herself a miracle
of learning. And I,
777, (IW
73 7\\

with my Robinson and Leinhart, seemed
to myself like a stupid rustic, in com-
parison. Moreover, it was the first time
that I had not seen Lisbeth for a whole
long day, and the thought was like a
premonition, and oppressed my heart.
So I was not assº, arº, sorry when
the time came to depart and I could
bid adieu to my accomplished friend.
It was dark night when we reached
our village, and I observed at once that
a light was still burning in the sexton's
house, where they usually went to bed
with the chickens. At our own house,
too, there was unusual commotion; my
mother came out to meet us with a
very disturbed face, and said something
in a low tone to my father, whereat he
cast a pitying glance at me and sent me
at once to bed.

74
It did not help matters that they tried
to spare me, so that I should not lose
my night's sleep. By dint of question-
ing, I got it all out of our old Katharine.
Only to think that forenoon, as the
weather was fine, Lisbeth had let her
little flock run about on a green near
the house, where all kinds of juicy
weeds grew ; when, on a sudden, a
strange butcher's-boy had come along
that way, stopped a moment to watch
the sight—and, then, as ill-luck would
have it, one of the silly little animals
had sprung between his dog's legs.
But the great brute could not under-
stand the fun, and had snapped at it
and caught the poor sinner by the nape
of his neck.
For Lisbeth to see this and spring at
the dog, Screaming and lashing her

75
switch, took but an instant. The dog,
as he felt the whip, dropped the rabbit,
gave a yelp, and sprung at the child,
biting her arm. He would have torn
her to pieces had not his master seized
him by the collar and forced him back.
The blood spurted from the sleeve of
the child’s little frock, but she had not
seemed aware of it; for she had bent
over the rabbit, lifted it, stroked it, and
ran with it in her apron back to the
house. Once inside, still she did not
pay any attention to her wound, but
had rushed to the well with the little
animal, who had not lost one drop of
blood and was only benumbed of
fright. When the mother first became
aware of the accident, she set up a loud
wail as she saw what had happened to
her child. Then Lisbeth had said her
arm hurt her, and with that she had
fallen in a swoon.
They had put her to bed and sent for
the barber, who had examined the
76
wound and looked grave—for they
could not say whether the dog were
mad or not. Later, the butcher's-boy
had vouched for the dog—it was not
mad. But the bite had gone deep and
an artery was severed. It was a severe
accident ; and, though the bandage had
stopped the bleeding, they must con-
tinue to use cold applications until ice
could be brought from the nearest
to Wn.
I wanted to go on at once, but my
mother would not hear of it. When I
was allowed to go to Lisbeth, early
the next morning, I found her sitting up
in her little bed, in a fever. She had
Haunesle on the blanket, and was
stroking him with her hot hand; but

she recognized no one, save him and
me. It was a heart-breaking sight, and
I had hard work to keep from weeping
aloud. But neither commands nor
threats could drive me from that
chamber the whole day and the night
following. Only towards morning my
eyes would close for an hour or so, and
when I opened
se:e tº dº dº
them again, my
poor darling fººt had closed
3-N = 2 ºrcrº
hers forever. * | ." The doctor,
Skyº: º 22
for whom my º father had
sent to town, ; ; explained that
the compress had nºt been applied with
sufficient care; a fragment of the sleeve
had remained in the wound and caused
blood-poisoning.
That was the first great sorrow of my
young life, and it made me stiff and
stony, so that I went about like one in
a dream, and could be interested in
nothing. On the third day, with two of
my sisters, I followed the little coffin
to the churchyard. Of my father's






78
Žſ address at the
(grave I did not un-
# derstand a word;
" and as the little
- coffin was covered
with wreaths and the clods of earth
were thrown upon it, I burst into tears
and suffered myself to be led home,
unresisting, by my mother,
and put to bed. Then
there fell upon me, after
grief, a leaden slumber.
I did not hear my three
younger sisters, who slept Cº
with me in the attic cham-
ber, as they undressed themselves and
went to bed.
Now, all this happened in mid-sum-
mer, and the air in the room where the
four beds stood continued to grow hot
and close, till at last an Alp, of a hun-
dred-weight, seemed resting upon my
chest, and, with a groan, I sat upright





79
to shake it off. The full moon shone
in as bright as day, so that I could
plainly distinguish the faces of my sis-
ters, and even see how heavily they
were breathing. I arose, and went to
open the window; but as I turned
around, the door which was opposite the
window opened softly, and in stepped
the child whom we had buried that
afternoon. She remained standing at
the threshold, and looked at me with
wide-open eyes. She was in the white
frock, just as she had lain in her coffin,
the wreath slightly awry on her brown
was quite
hair, she A.W.W.M.'ſ,
N!!/. deathly in
º
pale but not
§3 other re-
hue, and in 5. -
spects there Ǻ was nothing
uncanny about a tº
rified, but only for an instant, then I
could look at her without fear. I nod-
ded to her and said: “Are you really
little Lisbeth P And what do you want
of me?”
her. I was ter-








8o
But the poor child made no answer;
only stretched one arm toward me and
beckoned me.
“What do you mean P” I asked
again. “Don’t you want to lie down
again and go to sleep? Or shall I go
with you anywhere P”
Still she would not talk, but made a
painfully beseeching gesture, and beck-
oned me again.
“Well, then,” I said—for I had
never been able to refuse her any-
thing in life—“wait, and I will come
directly.” So I slipped into my petti-
coat, and drew on my stockings—my
sisters slept on tranquilly. As the child
turned about on her little bare feet her
steps were inaudible; I glided after
her, and we descended the stairs with-
out so much as one board creaking. So
we two slipped out at the back door,
which was never locked, through the
parsonage garden, where the moonlight
silvered every shrub, and into the nar-
:
:
8I
:
:
, row lane separating our
garden from the church-
yard. I had no idea
but that the child would
take me to her fresh-
ly-made grave; and
dearly as I loved
her, and devoted-
ly as I would have followed her even
to a much more gruesome place, I
shuddered, grew icy cold, and was
about to ask her again what was her
intention, when she suddenly turned
the corner of the churchyard wall and
hastened past it, swaying like a little
white cloud on before me toward her
home, which was on the other side of
the churchyard. “What does she want
there,” I wondered to myself. “Does
she want to see her poor mother once
more ?” No, she did not go into the
house. Along the hedge which in-
closed the sexton's garden, she went,
swifter and swifter; now through the
82
*
*
*





grated door, and straight toward the
little hutch in the corner where her pets
were confined. There she stood still
and looked around at me for the first
time, raised both her little hands as
though she were praying, and, as I
nodded to her, stepped back between
the rows of cabbages as if to let me
pass. I did not understand at once
what she wished, but I went at random
toward the little inclosure, and slid the
bolt of the grated door. Then I saw at
a glance the meaning of the dead child's
entreaties. The largest among the
little tenants lay about exhausted of
hunger, and only moved their ears
feebly as they saw me. Of the smaller
ones, Haunesle alone was alive, and he
was so weak that he could only blink
at me with his pink eyes. Not a mor-
sel of food, however small, in any
corner; the dish of water empty. Who,
in their grief at the loss of this child,
could think of her nurslings 2 And so,
83
she herself had had no rest in her
grave, but had risen, before all had
perished by starvation, and had sum-
moned her best friend to their rescue.
As I looked around toward her, and
was on the point of saying that she
could go to sleep again,
for I would now care
for them, the gentle
ghost had vanished.
The moon shone
broadly over the gar-
den-beds; I could count the leaves
on every head of cabbage; but little
Lisbeth was no longer to be seen.





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