view of the horror-struck Emil. Neither monk nor maiden re-appeared, and the despairing lover, appalled at the terrible event of which he was the cause, and cut to the soul at the death of his pretty Barbara, plunged after her into the vat and sank to rise no more.

When the brewery men came to their work the next morning, they were surprised to find the inspector's rosewood bowl floating in the great vat. As they drew off the beer, one of their first proceedings was, naturally enough, to taste it. They were astonished and delighted. Their convent beer was always good, but this was more than good; it was divine. There was a head, a flavour, and, above all, a body about it, such as nobody had ever before known. News of this wonderful brew went like wildfire round the town, and all Zittau came to see— and to drink. Especially came Abbot Petrus and his monks; their ecstasies over this wonderful beer were unbounded, and often and often were their horns emptied and replenished. So great was the excitement that nobody missed Father Laurentius, and by nightfall the entire brew was consumed.

In the morning, at the bottom of the empty vat were found, to the inexpressible horror of every one, the bodies of Laurentius, Emil, and Barbara. Terrible was the consternation in Zittau; all who had drunk of the "maiden beer," as it was now called, were immediately taken ill, their heads became fearfully hot, their stomachs deathly cold, and those of them who had imbibed more than five quarts were seized with a mortal sickness and died in a few hours. Amongst these were the Abbot Petrus, and many of his monks. The convent brewery was deserted; everybody now took to the town's beer, and notwithstanding the sad fate of his son, the chief brewer gradually recovered his peace of mind. The strangest thing was that the inspector's rosewood bowl had totally disappeared, and though a thorough search was made for it, could nowhere be found. In vain the convent offered a reward. The new abbot said the brothers were poor, and could give neither silver nor gold, but they could offer something infinitely more valuable, and the fortunate and honest finder should have so many masses said hereafter, for the repose of his soul, as would diminish the duration of his purgatorial pains by

at least a hundred years. Even this tempting offer produced no effect, but though the bowl was never recovered the secret of its disappearance was at length revealed. An old friend of Emil's, staying late one night in the town brewhouse, had occasion to make a visit to the malt-room. The moon was at the full, illuming with yellow light the piled up malt, and showing to the astonished youth a crowd of the very smallest men and women he had ever seen in his life. And they were so curiously attired-girdles of hop leaves were twisted round their minute and graceful bodies, wreaths of hop blossom were twined in their flowing hair, and they carried hop branches in their tiny hands. Their shoes were of shining crystal, clasped with ruby buckles; and they danced merrily to the strains of fairy-like music, laughing right lustily the while, with voices that rung like the tinkling of crystal bells. As the beholder gazed at this wonderful sight, there advanced out of the shadow cast by heavy rafters, three figures. The first was clad in the garb of a Franciscan friar, the second was the pretty Barbara, the third Emil. The friar drew from the folds of his gown a rosewood bowl, care

fully examined and tasted the malt, and then, beckoning to his companions and the fairy throng to follow him, descended the stairs to where stood a huge vat of almost fermented beer; this he also tasted, and, after tasting, solemnly blessed. Then he took Emil and the maiden by the hand, and all slowly melted into the golden moon beams.

Ever since, says the saga, the monk haunts all breweries; always on moonlight nights are his visits made. When he fails in his visit all goes wrong, but when he tastes the malt and blesses the brew the beer is good; except when brewers of depraved character water the beer after the blessing. To such wretches the malt monk never comes more; their beer remains unwholesome and unblest, and they are doomed in the next world perpetually to brew bad beer, and to drink their own brew.

THE LOCKSMITH OF GÖRLITZ.

M

was Fritz.

ANY years ago, there lived at Görlitz an

honest locksmith

Martin Müller

whose family consisted of his wife, Marie, and an only child, a boy, whose name

One gloomy winter night as Martin was returning from his work, he fancied he saw a figure lying in the snow by the wayside, and thought he could hear the sobbing wail of an infant's voice. He went towards the spot whence the sound proceeded, and found the figure to be that of a woman recently dead, evidently some poor wanderer who had fallen exhausted on the ground and perished of the bitter cold; and whose last thought had plainly been to fold her ragged cloak round the babe, whose crying had attracted the locksmith's attention. He took the