wife of a minister of state than of a simple doctor?"

"The wife of a simple doctor, indeed! Methinks I see myself in such a position!" exclaimed the spoiled beauty, with a toss of her pretty head. "No, no, papa! Stern is already sure of being appointed médecin en chef, and physician to the Prince Gustavus; and these are but the first steps in his career."

"You are a very foolish girl!" said the Baroness. "Forstberg is by far the best match in every point of view, and I am convinced that it would be his study to make you happy."

"I do not want to be made happy, but to make happiness!" exclaimed Sidonia passionately. "I love Stern: his calm seriousness, his talents, his decision of character, all come up to my ideal of what a man should be. He has nature's own patent of nobility-honour, probity, and talent; and far superior in my eyes are his simple manners to all the affectation, coxcombry, and flattery of our every-day gallants. What is the income of a minister, papa?" "Twelve thousand thalers, my dear." "Well, and I have heard you say that many of our celebrated physicians make from twenty to five-and-twenty thousand; so you see that in every point of view I have chosen for the best. And why should not Stern take out a patent of nobility as well as Forstberg?"

Well-done, my little calculator !" said the Baron, kissing her. "I have nothing to say against Stern: he saved my life; has done wonders wherever I have recommended him; and appears to be on the high road to wealth, fame, and honour."

"Consequently he will become my husband; and Forstberg will be dismissed with all due ceremony. And you will not refuse your consent, dearest mother? You, who have ever studied the happiness of your child, will not oppose it

now "

"I suppose you must have your own way," said the Baroness, returning the caresses of the coaxing girl; "but I cannot fancy you will be happy, my love, with such a man as Stern. He may be an excellent doctor, but his plebeian origin is impressed upon his person, manners, and even his very thoughts; and his calm, grave, cold indifference to the pleasures of life contrast painfully with your joyous, lively disposition." "Ah! but mamma, you have no idea what an alteration I shall make in him!"

"Nor will he be the first man who has been rendered quite a different being by the influence of a young and lovely bride," observed the Baron.

A servant entered at this moment, and announced "Dr. Stern."

The bright blood tinged Sidonia's features with a lively blush, as she entreatingly said"Let me receive him alone, dear papa! Do permit me, mamma! Hitherto I have only played with his feelings, and warded off a declaration; but the decisive moment is now arrived when he must speak." The Baron smiled as he offered his arm to his lady, and led her from

the room; and Sidonia had just time to seat herself gracefully on the sofa, and recline her head upon her hand, when Stern entered. "I am so glad you are come, Doctor," she languidly observed. "You must enter me on your list of patients : I feel very feverish and excitable this morning."

"The usual consequences of dissipation," he replied, somewhat reproachfully.

"Do not scold me now. I am sure I did not dance too much.”

Perhaps you took cold from being so lightly clad," he observed, taking the little hand in his, and feeling her pulse. "I think the proper penance would be to forbid your leaving your room to-day."

"I will remain most obediently a prisoner until dinner-time," she replied: "but papa desired me to be sure and dine at home to-day, as he has invited young Forstberg, my principal partner at the ball last-night--he who has lately come into such a fine property. But of course you know all about that; for I have heard that you are old and intimate friends."

Stern dropped the fair hand which had still lingered in his, his face flushed, and then again became pale; but recovering himself instantly, he calmly observed, "Yes, we have known each other long, and I esteem Forstberg most highly, and sincerely wish him every happiness."

"He is a most amusing companion; full of wit and conversation, and an excellent dancer."

"In all of which points I am deficient. I am aware of my lack of wit and eloquence, and of my awkwardness in the dance, and never dream of entering the lists against those so much more gifted than myself. All that has fallen to my share is common sense, and just talent enough to enable me to make my way in the world."

"And yet I have heard that you occasionally write verses," said Sidonia, archly.

"The most mediocre beings have their moments of inspiration: mine have been when I thought of thee! Sidonia, may I, dare I speak?" There was nothing discouraging in the glance of those melting blue eyes, which for a moment met his beseeching gaze; and he poured forth his love in a stream of passionate words, concluding with-" Speak, Sidonia; can you love me? Will you prefer me, rude and simple as I am, to Forstberg, with all his advantages?"

The young girl placed her hands in his without reply; but none was needed; he drew her unresistingly to his bosom, and imprinted a lover's first kiss upon her ruby lips. The eloquent silence that ensued was broken by the entrance of the Baron and his lady; and Stern instantly led Sidonia towards them, and in a few hasty words besought their consent and blessing. This was not withheld, and in a few minutes more they were all sitting together, forming plans for the future, and appointing a day for the public solemnization of the betrothal. The first time the bridegroom-elect found himself alone with Sidonia, he, as an act of duty, related to her the events of his life, his position,

his struggles against poverty, his intimacy with, and obligations to, Professor Arnheim-leaving out Rosalia's name, however, entirely-and his present situation and brilliant prospects. "One thing more I must add, dearest Sidonia!" he said: " my parents are, as I have already said, simple-working people; my father is by trade a joiner. But still they are my parents, and have the same right to receive every proof of filial respect and affection from me as if they were placed in the highest position; and I am their only child. I am fully aware of the difference between them and the persons with whom you have ever been accustomed to associate, but still I am anxious that my bride should herself assure me that she will rise superior to the prejudices of the world, and welcome the good old couple, not only for my sake, but for their own sterling worth.'

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Sidonia could not prevent a slight shudder from passing over her, as her mind's eye pictured the old joiner and his wife beside her lady mother, her lofty father, and all the circle of titled friends and relatives who would grace her wedding. This was a bitter drop in her cup of joy, but still she could not help esteeming the man of her choice, who, in the full enjoyment of successful love and the world's honours, forgot not to honour his parents; and conquering her pride, she replied with apparent cordiality, "Fear not, dear Stern; your father and mother shall be ever welcome to me, and receive every mark of love and respect at my hands."

Her lover gratefully thanked her, and arose to take his departure. "Nay, you will not leave me yet?" she said, playfully detaining him. "Let your patients have a holiday for once. I have so much to talk to you about."

Stern kissed the detaining hand and replied, "That cannot be, dearest! A physician, like a soldier, must be ever at his post: it is his duty to combat the worse foes of poor human nature, and he must not by neglect suffer them to gain an inch of vantage ground. On my return I will come and linger by you until you drive me hence; but now inclination must give way to duty."

The door had scarcely closed upon him when the Baroness scornfully observed, There, child! you see what you have to expect. Your husband's time will belong to any one but you."

"All that he has to spare will be devoted to me, mamma; and I honour him the more that he had the good sense not to yield to my idle request."

"That's right, my girl," observed her father; accustom yourself by times to yield to that which is unavoidable. If all doctors were to sit philandering by their wives or brides, what would become of the sick? Unless, indeed, we may believe the voice of scandal, which would fain assure us that many of them would immediately get well."

*

A few evenings after these scenes, Dr. Stern might be seen, enveloped in a mantle, pacing

hastily through some of the streets on the suburbs of the town, and pausing before an old house which was evidently occupied by two or three families. He mounted the broad, dark staircase two or three steps at a time, and as one familiar with it, and paused before a door on the second flat. Sweet, melancholy chords, then a wild strain full of beauty and pathos, and then a few interrupted notes dying gently away, as if the performer's hands were guided by her passing thoughts, met his ear as he stood there. He tapped at the door, and upon receiving the summons, "Come in," opened it, and entered with a firm step the almost dark room.

"Who is it?" inquired a clear, female voice; while a tall, slight form arose from the instrument.

"It is me, Rosalia," replied Stern, approaching her.

"You! Gustavus?" she replied, in tones of mingled joy, surprise, and melancholy. "I am very glad to see you once again. Here, sit down in your own old place upon the sofa. My father is out, so we shall have our chat all to ourselves."

"Yes, I chose this time purposely, Rosalia. I wanted to be able to talk confidentially to you. Will you light the lamp?"

"I can hear you equally well in the dark, Gustavus. Speak on." And the clear tones trembled.

"I am about to be married."

"So I have heard: to Madlle. von Pinzer; but until this moment I could hardly believe it."

"I am sorry that you should have heard it first from other lips than mine: our long friendship entitles you to my fullest confidence. It is now more than four years, Rosalia, that I have known and esteemed you; four years that I have been permitted to enjoy your society and friendship-to dream of what might have been a paradise. But that happy period must be blotted from the pages of memory."

"God alone can efface all remembrance of the past; 'tis not in the power of feeble human nature to do this."

"But I must do it, or forbear to tread the path marked out for me. Rosalia, we must part-now and for ever! I have chosen between love and ambition, and must abide by my choice. Full well do I know that my domestic life would have been happier hadst thou been my bride; but there would have been a worm in the bud of that happiness, destroying the fragrance and beauty of the blossom: unsatisfied ambition would ever have been gnawing at my heart; the thought of the eminence to which I might have attained would have poisoned the bliss bestowed by your love; the enjoyment of a mere competence would have seemed but a mockery. Such are the convictions which hours of thought and doubt have forced upon me; such the feelings to which I sacrifice all that was once the cherished wish and purpose of my heart. For I have loved thee, Rosalia! God only knows how dearly! And I still love thee."

"Hold, Gustavus! Defend yourself, if you

will; but in words of truth. You never truly loved me, or such feelings as you describe could have found no place in your heart."

"Rosalia, you know not what the resolution to give you up and wed another has cost me; sleepless nights-days of almost madnessthought, until thought became a pain! I have struggled with my ambition-wrestled with the longing to grasp the bright prospects opened to me-until the big drops of sweat hung upon my brow; but the result was ever the same. I saw myself a prey to disappointment and blighted ambition; and you, who it would have been my wish and duty to make happy, rendered miserable by the same fell influence. I felt that domestic felicity could not compensate me for the sacrifice of that fame and those honours for which my soul pants, and at length I decided. Reproach me, Rosalia, if you will; but forget, as I must do, that we were ever more than friends." "You mistake me, Gustavus, if you for a moment imagined that I should stoop to reproaches. You have a perfect right to act upon your convictions; and it is better for you that the regard you bore me was one that would yield to the dictates of prudence and worldly wisdom. It is not so I loved! But that matters not now. Forget me, and may you be happy! My best wishes-my most fervent prayers-will ever accompany you. Adieu, Gustavus! Heaven bless you! Go now at once!"

Stern lingered yet a few moments, as if wishing again to hear the sound of that sadly sweet voice; then pressed her hand again and again to his lips, and departed.

As the door closed upon him, Rosalia slowly arose and parted back the dark tresses from her lofty brow, as if to cool it. Eagerly she listened to the departing steps; then, springing to the window, watched the form of him she loved, until it was lost to her view. With a deep sigh she closed the casement, and, lighting the lamp, took from a small bookcase that volume of Shakspeare which contains the play of "Henry the Fourth," and, opening it at the beautiful scene in which "Katherine Percy" mourns for her husband, read, to banish thought.

Thus employed her father found her. She arose on his return; took from him his hat, mantle, and cloak; led him to his easy-chair, and then, leaning over him with one arm thrown around his neck, spoke in her usual clear and gentle voice.

"I have heard some news that concerns you, Rosalia!" observed the old man.

"How! What mean you? This is incomprehensible."

"Stern is about to wed Baron von Pinzer's daughter, father-not me."

"A villain!" exclaimed the old Professor, starting angrily up. "And is it possible that he has only been trifling with you for the last four years, and deceiving me? Robbing you of four of the most precious years of your life; prejudicing your interests, and blighting your young heart. Oh! I cannot believe him to be such a villain."

"Stern is poor, dear father; the Baron is his patron and benefactor. An union with that family will ensure him all the advantages of their interest, and make his career brilliant and successful."

"Give me my hat and mantle, child!”

66

Hold, father! What would you do?" exclaimed Rosalia, throwing her arms round him. "Go to the Baron, and explain the character of the man he is about to receive as son-in-law."

"You will do no such thing, father. What if I tell you that I rejected Stern; that but now he offered me his hand, and I refused it; that I like him not?"

The old man gazed upon her with a clouded and reproachful look, and exclaimed-" Then does misfortune throw her darts on me from every side!"

Rosalia watched him as he threw himself back in his chair, and buried his face in his hands; and there were tears, like pearls, hanging upon her long dark eye-lashes; but brushing them hastily away, she bent fondly over him, and kissing his furrowed brow, whispered-" What is it, dear father, that grieves you so?"

"I am pensioned off, as being too old to fulfil the duties of my professorship efficiently," was the gloomy reply.

"Is that all?" she said, compelling herself to speak cheerfully. "Now then you will be able to take that rest which your years and failing health render so very necessary; and we shall not be obliged to live within the smoky atmosphere of the town, but can have a pretty little cottage and garden. The pension will secure us from want; and those talents which I have hitherto cultivated merely for amusement shall be turned to account, and procure for us the luxuries, as well as the comforts, of life."

"Why did you refuse Stern, my child? I know you love him! I am an old man, within a few years of the grave, therefore for me the change matters little; but how much happier would those few years have been, could I have seen my only girl comfortably settled!"

"Ask me not the cause of my so doing. It past. Our paths are henceforth far apart. Let me devote myself to you, my father, and fear not for the future. While you live you will be father, friend, husband, all to me! and when I lose you, God, the orphan's comforter and solace, will still remain."

Sobs choked her utterance; and the father and child wept freely in each other's arms.

Gradually both recovered their serenity.

There is scarcely a ripple on the Thames: it seems lulled by its own gentle motion into a half conscious sleep, and to steal past the giant city in a dream; and when dashed upon the rude supporters of the bridge, whose name and whose structure are the symbols of strength, it only bubbles in a peevish tone, and again steals noiselessly on-the embodiment of a speechless soul. Still mantled in the early haze that almost hides the chequered dawn, the storehouse of the world reposes. The craft, burdened with the product of a thousand climes, float in security, or rest near warehouses, which, like misers storing a mighty wealth, assume the mien of poverty. These, too, are silent and asleep!

A sunbeam kisses the reflecting stream. Another follows. These and the river are the only signs of movement. A few moments they revel and are joined by more. Hush! there is no breathing audible around. Yet life is stirring, for a deep, dense cloud curls from the lofty fabrics -homes of a thousand wonders.

The city is unveiling. How queen-like-how majestically grand she looks as-she casts aside the subtle fibre that envelops her! Mark her tiara of a hundred spires. There is no frown, no darkness on her beauty; she is bathed in light, and with her charms revealed, she revels in a limpid sea of air.

The twitter of a bird! Hist! it is repeated. Now, near; now, further down the stream. Yonder some vagrant swallow skims, dipping her swift wing in the sluggard waters. There! again she twitters, and beside the shore chases the water-gnats, whose wings may not elude the swiftness of her flight. Now-she is gone, still twittering, up the stream to her accustomed haunt.

A tread of footsteps; and anon-now here, now there, in seeming concert to the stars above the city lights vanish. A boat skims swiftly from beneath an arch of the still lamp-lit bridge. A question is propounded, and reply echoes from friendly lips, which in return are greeted, and

exchange again with others a like greeting. The wharf, the quay, the craft, no longer are deserted. The straggling few are multiplied. Some lounge, recline, and at their ease beguile the surplus leisure prior to their toil.

Speed-speed! A heavy plash of oars. The tremulous waters part, and on either hand roll back at the prow's magic touch, that the skiff may dash more swiftly on. How eagerly each wakened wave uplifts its little head, then sinks once more upon the ruffled bosom of the stream. It cannot sleep, so springs again, and yet again, to mark the progress of the skiff that had so rudely broken on its rest. It is not to be seen; but the far echoing plash still gives the watchword, "Speed!"

A shriek-a cry!

Their course is now diverted. Another plunge of the on-pressing oar and they are landed amid the tumult gathered on a raft. A child has seized a kerchief, that to a plank half clung, half floated on the stream. Her pinafore is wet with the passionless drops that roll from the red kerchief, mingling with her tears, big with the soul's first agony and dread. One momentsee-her eyes grow tearless, and are fixed. She marked the kerchief with her own small hands, and, Gorgon-like, the thread-drawn truth enchains her cold, pale being, like a monument.

A shout! The child stands motionless, and like a harp of Eolus unstrung, wakes not in answer, though a fitting breath thrills through her heart-strings to its very core. The shout more wildly echoes on the air. See-see-a sinewy arm draws from the envious element a drowned form. Is life, indeed, extinct? The budding bosom seems as if it heaved. Delu

sion-all delusion-she is DEAD!

Had youth for thee lost all its myriad charms? So young, and yet so weary of a life that should have been all sunshine and all joy. Could it be well, by one rash act to leap from life's young springtime to the arms of cold, rough winter, and to make thy bridal-bed the grave? Where is the summer of thy ripened charms; and life's soft evening of declining years, the autumn full of quietude and peace? Was all so hopeless that the sands of life were burned into a desert of despair, whereon thy way-worn soul was a lone, homeless wanderer? Why, why did FAITH forsake thee, whose sure hand should have guided thee, through life's storms, to the Great City of ETERNAL WISDOM!