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"I shall run away from you some day, and when I come back and ask your forgiveness, you'll forgive me, mother, won't you?"

Bertha was approaching very near the edge of her precipice—a more far-seeing woman than the simple Frau Sternemberg would have divined her meaning; she replied only:

"I don't see the necessity of any running away, Bertha; you have only to hold up your finger and may choose a husband from half a dozen that I know of."

"No," said Bertha to herself, "I must not, I cannot trust my mother."

The day passed much as the others had done lately, and so did the next, only Bertha appeared very thoughtful. The necessity of packing her boxes gave her an excuse for keeping as much as possible from under her mother's eye.

At length the third morning broke pale and grey, and Bertha, muffled in her veil, stole from her room and went out into the quiet street before any of the household were about. She must make some excuse for her morning walk; she knew not what at present. Perhaps, even at the last hour, Basil would give her back her promise, and then she would make a full confession of her undutiful conduct, secure of forgiveness from her indulgent parents.

The mists were still hanging over the surface of the Rhine as she bent her solitary way to the ruined convent; not a soul was about; not a boat yet disturbed the ripples of the shrouded river; here and there, in thin wreaths, the mist had begun to curl, looking like ghosts vanishing at the break of day, returning to their haunted halls and melting gradually in the morning air.

As Bertha approached, with faltering steps, nearer to the ruin, she recognised Basil. He wore his long travelling-cloak and his cap, and, as he stood upon a broken column, watching for her approach, he looked, in the grey light, like some evil spirit of the Rhine awaiting its victim.

As Bertha got nearer he leaped from his elevated position and hastened towards her.

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"The priest, Basil-the priest!" she gasped, interrupting his first words; "he is not here, then?"

"Yes, Bertha, he is here, a priest of the holy order of Jesus, an Italian who speaks German, but not fluently. I will lead you to him. Question him, dearest. I have not deceived you."

The count led Bertha through the interior of the ruin into the little chapel. Standing before what was once the altar, but which was now only a shapeless mass of crumbling masonry, the outline clearly defined, but all the tracery long since obliterated, stood a short man of sinister aspect, enveloped, like the count, in a long cloak.

Leading Bertha towards him, the count said:

"Father, the maiden to whom I am betrothed; she wishes to converse with you for a few moments before sacrament of marriage is taken by us."

The count then retired for a few paces, leaving Bertha with the priest.

It may be necessary to inform some of our readers that the marriage ceremony is regarded as one of the sacraments in the Romish Church.

"Speak, maiden," said the priest; "speak, and fear not."

"Pardon me, reverend father," said Bertha, "but a maiden's fame is too dear to her to throw it recklessly away, but I wished to know if you really are

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"Do you doubt, then, the fidelity of your lover?" said he, interrupting her.

"No, no, but I risk so much; if you are really a priest, I appeal to you to know if I may take this step with safety?"

"My daughter, I understand your caution," replied the Jesuit, "and I applaud it. The garb of the priest is not assumed like the disguise of a gallant at the carnival."

He threw off his cloak and discovered the ordinary dress of a priest, not the vestments, but the cassock and the narrow neckband worn in public by the Catholic priests in most countries.

"And in this place," asked Bertha, tremblingly, "no longer devoted to public worship, is it here that the ceremony may be truly performed?"

"My daughter," returned the Jesuit, solemnly, "wherever the priest chooses to plant the symbol of his Church there is the altar. Our Church is universal, its power extends to the far ends of the globe, even to the backwoods of the Far West, wherever man has penetrated or may penetrate, there will they be set up. Ruin may fall upon its ancient shrines as upon this, but the spirits of the saints still guard them. Consecrated to the blessed Virgin it is beyond the power of man to make this shrine unholy. Behold, I restore to it the emblem before which thousands have knelt within its sacred walls."

The Jesuit took from his pocket a small ivory crucifix, which he placed horizontally upon the stone slab that had probably been an altar-table, and knelt before it.

Bertha turned round as if looking for Basil. Following the example of the priest, he was already on his knees.

She could no longer doubt.

"You love this man?" asked the priest, who rose after having muttered a short prayer.

Bertha bent her eyes to the ground..

"And would follow him wherever he would lead you?"

"No, reverend father, I would leave him even now for ever, unless"-and her face deepened with a crimson blush—“unless ĺ can go forth with him as my husband."

"Daughter, thou knowest not thy strength nor thy weakness; flesh is frail, human passions are strong. It is to prevent the possibility of this crime that I have consented to unite you."

The Jesuit said nothing of that other inducement that the count had found to reconcile his conscience. He had known him years ago in Rome, had recognised him among the strangers at Bonn, only a few days before, and then only he conceived the idea of blinding Bertha by a partial marriage.

That the Jesuit saw through him there can be but little doubt, for he put to Bertha no test of her religious faith; he had received the assurance of the count that it corresponded with his own, and that was enough for him if he should ever be called upon to answer for his act to his superiors.

The Jesuit made a sign to the count to approach; bidding both kneel down, he then recited some prayers in Latin, which Bertha could not comprehend. When the ceremony, which he read from a small pocket ritual, was concluded, he blessed them and extended the crucifix towards them. Then taking from his pocket a pen and ink-horn and a slip of paper, he wrote what purported to be a certificate of the marriage, which Bertha and Basil signed and he countersigned. This he gave to Bertha, and then resumed his cloak.

"Farewell," he said, extending his hand to Bertha; "remember the vow you have taken. Pray to the blessed Virgin to keep you a true and faithful daughter of the holy Church. May all good saints watch over and protect you!"

Bertha shuddered.

"Had she, then, in taking these vows in a language which was strange to her, done that which might be construed into the changing of the faith in which she was reared?"

She turned to Basil imploringly.

"What does he mean, Basil?"

"Fear not, dearest Bertha, dearest wife," he said; "these priests, they scruple at no means to frighten the timid to become converts to their faith. I question not your belief. You have said nothing to make him think

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"Oh no, no, death rather than that!" she said, interrupting him.

But the words of the priest, who had meanwhile silently departed, sunk deep into her soul.

The morning was now breaking fully, and it was necessary that they should part. Bertha intrusted to Basil the plan that had so opportunely presented itself for her escape and left him, entreating

him not to follow her, but to remain where he was until there was no chance of their being seen in sight of each other by any one passing along the path or on the river.

When Bertha reached home one of Sternemberg's journeymen. was taking down the shutters, and her mother was already in the parlour fidgeting about.

"What a fright you have given me, Bertha," said the latter. "Where have you been, child?"

"For a walk, mother," replied Bertha, sitting down to recover her breath.

"For a walk!-at this hour! After what you said yesterday, I thought you had run away in real earnest. Where have you been, child?"

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"I have been," said Bertha-she had not yet been able to form the excuse in her mind-"I have been to the ruins of the old convent."

"And pray what took you there at this hour?"

"I wished to see it again, mother. You know it is the ruin Leopold was so fond of sketching."

"As if the ruin was likely to run away," said the matter-of-fact dame. "What could have put that into your head?"

"I thought that, as I am going away-I thought that, perhaps, I might never see it again."

"I really think the girl is bewitched. There, don't cry; go and take your things off. I hope your walk has given you an appetite for your breakfast, for you have not eaten much lately."

Hain Sternemberg, who was not habitually an early riser, now entered the parlour. Bertha was therefore spared further questioning, and the three sat down to breakfast.

It was with an almost superhuman effort that Bertha managed to control herself-she felt that she should like to utter a loud scream-to dash some heavy article from the breakfast-table through the looking-glass-to do anything unreasonable or extravagant to give her pent-up feelings relief-she, with that great secret upon her, with no one to impart it to, no one to confide in.

She scarcely touched her breakfast-she could not swallow; she felt choking; she could barely raise with her trembling hands a cup of coffee to her lips.

"Go to your room, child, and lie down," said her mother, in answer to her beseeching looks, "or you will not have strength enough left for your journey."

Glad to escape at any risk, Bertha rose from the breakfast-table and left the room.

"It is a good thing she is going," said the Frau Sternemberg to her husband. "It is the work that has done it. Bertha is far from strong. I hope this holiday will do her good."

As the day wore on, Bertha felt the necessity of making an effort. She came down calmer, but very pale. This her mother only attributed to her loss of appetite.

At last the hour came when the steam-boat was expected to pass. Bertha's luggage was wheeled to the landing-place by one of the assistants, and her father accompanied her to the wharf to see her off.

When Bertha parted from her mother she fell upon her bosom, and felt that even her sobs and tears were a relief. The good creature would have sobbed and wept too, had she thought that that parting might be for ever.

The last bell was being rung upon the steam-boat when a porter from one of the hotels came hastily on, wheeling on a hand-truck a quantity of luggage.

He was followed by a passenger in a long cloak, whose fur cap almost concealed his features. In another moment the luggage and passenger were on board, the hawsers were drawn in, and the boat, gaining the centre of the stream, glided rapidly on.

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The honest tailor remained on the wharf, waving his handkerchief until it was out of sight, but he failed to observe any parting signal waved to him in return.

THE FRENCH OFFICER'S DAUGHTER.

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL.

[Among the dead, after the sanguinary battle of Woerth, a French captain was found with a letter crisped up in his hand; it was from his little daughter, a child; it expressed deep affection, and great sorrow at his absence, and hoped that he would soon return and embrace her, and console her mother.]

HE held it in his hand;

For he had plucked it from his bleeding breast,

As dying on the crimson field he lay,

And the small missive to his lips he pressed,
Calling up thoughts of dear ones far away.

He held it in his hand;

And though the fight raged on-a tumult dire-
The rush of squadrons-volleys-shouts and cries,
The boom of cannon, whizzing balls, and fire,
Still on that paper fixed his glazing eyes.

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