The Crusades came on, those unfortunate and ill-fated enterprises, in which so much was sacrificed, endured, and suffered, by so many brave, but misguided men.

Summoned away by his suzerain, to take part in these wars, the Lord Roland, imbued with the enthusiastic spirit of the Crusaders, bade a hasty adieu to his betrothed, being obliged to defer the marriage until his return. We will pass over the mutual sorrow of the pair at their compulsory separation. Tearing himself away, he hurried to the scene of conflict, whence, in a short time, news was forwarded to Hildegunde of his death.

She received it with the most intense grief, and, heartbroken, retired to a convent on the island of Nonnenwerth, where she became a veiled nun.

Roland, however, had not fallen a victim to the vengeance of his Saracen opponents, and, in due time, returned, laurel-crowned, to be married, as he expected, and hoped.

Judge of his surprise and sorrow, when he found that she, whom he wished to claim as a bride, was for ever lost to him. Unhappy Roland, he could not even see her, for, of course, intercourse with the world outside, in any shape, was forbidden to the recluse.

To obviate, in some measure, this calamity, he had a castle built on a rock overlooking the convent, so as to be able to watch her as she walked about in the convent

gardens.

Hildegunde at length died, and from the time that the bell tolled for her funeral, Roland never spoke again, but was discovered one day quite dead, with his widelydistended eyes still fixed upon the convent chapel.

Poor Roland, poor Hildegunde, one can easily imagine how bitterly she would repent the hasty act that for ever separated them.

Had she but waited, all might have been well; as it is, her story remains, a sad memorial of suffering occasioned by too lightly giving ear to tales, by listening to that which, though clothed in the semblance of truth, upon proper investigation would have proved to rest upon, at best, but an insecure foundation.

She was, doubtless, not the first who suffered for this error-she will not be the last; over-credulousness generally brings its punishment in some shape or other.

The ruins of Roland's Castle of Drachenfels still remain, and from Rolandseck a fine view of them may be obtained, much better than by a nearer approach.

Calmly, placidly the gentle Rhine flows below, dotted with boats and barges-a peaceful, happy scene that the mind may well love to dwell upon and idealize.

On this particular evening how lovely it is! Sweet content appears to have set her seal upon the place, that no discord may enter therein.

Is all in keeping with this fair exterior? No, sad hearts may doubtless be found, even in this paradise, hearts that have discovered the world to be but vanity and vexation of spirit.

What a pretty house is this, standing by the river-side, shaded by noble chestnut-trees. Who lives here? They must be happy in this terrestrial Eden, where no cankerworm can surely have entered. Is it not so?

One of the lower windows is thrown wide open, and as

we pass we hear a long-drawn sigh, as though some one within were groaning under life's heavy burden.

This must be an individual whose feelings are not in keeping with the beauty without, on whom all this tranquil serenity is bestowed in vain.

Let us enter, and see the cause of this sorrow. The room itself betokens wealth and ease-assuredly the occupant cannot require more. The carpet we tread upon is rich and soft, no sound of the footfall being audible. On the walls are splendid oil-paintings, while the rest of the furniture corresponds.

One of the couches is drawn up to the open window, and upon it, gazing at the lovely scene before her, reclined a lady, scarcely past the meridian of life, but with an air of utter weariness upon the noble and still beautiful features.

Evidently some trouble had fallen upon her, weighing the fair head down beneath its load, until, like a fragile flower on whom some furious tempest has burst, she lay, spent, and worn-out with the exhausting force of the struggle.

The little hands, so white and soft, were wofully attenuated, while rich dark hair fell over a cheek of almost snowy whiteness. The dark eyes, gazing strainingly over the smooth river, were filled with unshed tears, and the little lips, so tightly drawn, bore lines of unmistakeable suffering.

As she gazed, a boat drew up to the water's edge, and out of it stepped a gentleman, who, quickly paying the boatman his fare, hurried up to the house.

In the

space of a minute he was within the room, and stood by the side of the couch, regarding with affectionate solicitude the frail being who occupied it.

"You are late, Harry," she said in quiet tones.

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Yes, Lilias, dear, I am late, and unavoidably, too. I was detained at Königswinter longer than I anticipated. I would not willingly leave you."

"I know that, Harry," and a faint smile lit up the gentle face.

"Are you any better, my drooping lily-flower?" he enquired, a little touch of pity in his voice as he spoke.

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'Yes, Harry, thanks! Oh, there is a letter for you from England."

The husband took up the said letter and opened it; while he is reading we will glance at him.

He is English, evidently, and well-bred, probably of noble birth; a tall, stalwart frame; well-made, and possessing great power, surmounted by a handsome head. English also, the hair golden-brown, intermixed with grey, the eyes blue, the brow broad and high. A good face, a face one might instinctively trust at first sight, and which, doubtless, upon closer acquaintance, might learn to respect and love, for the sake of its owner.

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'Any news, Harry?" enquired the lady.

Nothing of importance, Lily; affairs are going on quite satisfactorily at Menteith, Leland says, and he would like to know, if possible, when we think of returning thither," replied her husband.

"Oh, Harry, don't ask me," said the wife, piteously; "I cannot, cannot go. I do manage to live here; there I

G

should die-it would all come back to me what I have borne at Menteith, and the thoughts of my little lost darling. Harry, I cannot go yet. I am tolerably contented here, and and enjoy fair health; but there, where every tree, every fresh scene, every room would speak of him, I should sink. I could not survive the constant shocks I should receive."

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Then, Lilias, I will write and postpone our return for an indefinite period; so that is settled; and with a smile, "Will you take a little stroll, dear, the evening is delightful, so fresh and pleasant. Shall I ring for your shawl?"

"It is here, my hat also. I tried to walk down by the river this afternoon; but the heat was too much for me." "You should not have tried, Lily; you know you are not equal to bearing fatigue," said he, tenderly enveloping her slight figure in the warm shawl, and placing the large Leghorn hat upon the little head.

"Now, Lilias, please to take my arm, and we'll go and explore."

The words were spoken playfully, evidently with the design of diverting the mournful current of her thoughts into a more cheerful channel, and with some little effect, for she glanced up at him, affectionately, and smiled; this husband who thus made it his constant aim to seek her comfort and happiness. No thought of self ever intruded between them; to cheer her existence, to brighten her days, self was completely thrust aside.

For years he had longed to revisit the home of his fathers; but for her sake that feeling was striven with,