to the Schänzli. There will be music there to-night, and you may just as well get ready now. If you change your gown later on, the captain will have a right to think it is done for him."

She looked anxiously in the girl's face, but Marie showed no signs of yielding.

"Go quickly, my child," the old woman urged, “and then if the captain comes before you return, I will take him to church, and you will join us there.”

"Stop, madame” - Marie had been thinking. "I am not going to be led into anything against my will. If I go to church and come out with the captain, does it pledge me to anything?"

Madame Bobineau was growing desperate and losing her temper. The captain would come in ten minutes, and she had made no impression on Marie.

"You have been trying to impose on me, Marie," she said, angrily, "and you know it. What right had you to accept those flowers? You knew fast enough what you were doing-a beggar like you, indeed, to be picking and choosing! I have been much too forbearing. ever heard of a girl of your age choosing a husband for herself? I have chosen you a good husband, and all you have to do is to accept him gratefully-voilà !"

Who

She took a pinch of snuff, and called herself an old fool for not having taken this attitude earlier in the discussion.

Marie rose up.

"I do not want to be ungrateful or disobedient," she said, sadly. "I will go and change my gown to please you; but I can not marry Captain Loigerot."

"Nonsense! I tell you he is as rich as he is kind. What more can you want in a husband?"

Marie turned away; her face was full of

sorrow.

"I can't love him; and how can I marry a man I do not love?" she said, half crying. At that moment she really wished she could accept the captain, it seemed such an easy escape from the glove shop, from Madame Carouge, and from her misery.

Madame Bobineau snapped her fingers. "Love! I said nothing about love. What can love have to do with your marriage? A girl like you marries for a home, for a position, Marie, and Captain Loigerot can give you both. You little simpleton, do you think I married Bobineau for anything except his glove shop?"

She had to soothe herself with an extra pinch of snuff.

Marie had reached the door of the kitchen, and now she leaned her head against it; she did not want the old woman to see her tears.

"My father and mother loved one another; I'm sure they did."

She murmured this as if to herself, but the old woman heard, and snorted with rage.

66

A pair of penniless fools they were. And pray what happened? They didn't take much by their love, Marie. They offended all their friends"-she rapped her large-boned knuckles on the snuff-box to keep time to her words-"and they died beggars—yes, beggars. Don't talk to me of your father and mother, Marie; their love was mere self-indulgence, and you have no reason to be grateful to them for leaving you without means of support. I should like to know what would become of you if I died to-morrow. I've nothing to leave, after my funeral is paid for, I can tell you."

Marie raised her tear-stained face. Once more she stretched out her hand, but this time the gesture was an imploring one.

"I beg you to leave me alone, madame; please let me be quiet till after mass at any rate; I can not think in a hurry. I do not say even then that I will marry Captain Loigerot-but I will think."

She went out, her head bent on her breast. All life and hope had fled from her movements as she walked slowly back along the street to her bedroom in the court at the foot of the steps.

CHAPTER XXIV.

ON THE LAKE.

MADAME CAROUGE had sat silently gazing. The open summer - house with pointed red roof, in which she had invited Rudolf to rest, was on the top of one of two towers built at the angles of the old city wall, which reaches up the hill, and supports and girdles in the terrace beside the flowery churchyard. The angle piers and roof of the summer-house were rosy red with clinging garlands of Virginia creeper. Just below, was the old gray wall, flower and weed grown; houses clustered at its foot, and beyond them was the exquisite bluegreen of the river; on the left, high

above, rose the huge dark pine-covered ridge that shelters Thun from the north wind; on the right, the willow-trees by the river were silvery gray as they bent over an island clasped by two arms of the Aar-a curtain of trees almost crossed the water; and beyond was the still lake, washing the feet of the Niesen and of the grand semicircle of mountains that seemed the advanced guards of the snowy giants above them. The sky was still clear on this side, and the dazzling white of the Blumlis Alp and the Freundhorn made a vivid contrast to the rich green and purple of the Niesen and the flank of another ridge that stretched out as if to meet it; while filling up the gap with her silver glory was the Blumlis Alp-a glory now at mid-day tempered by delicate gray shadows; beyond, the Jungfrau, the Monch, and the Eiger rose up stupendous, as if in a kind of scorn of their lesser brethren. A wreath of vapor circled the Niesen, but it looked feathery, and as if the next gust of wind might blow it away. Rudolf found it hard to believe he was gazing at sinful, sorrow-stained earth; he felt that this might be a glimpse into heaven.

"It is hard to think that there are doubt less bad people living in sight of all this beauty," he said, in a low voice; "it ought to keep them pure and true."

"Yes," murmured Madame Carouge. He did not look round. If he had seen his companion's face he would have realized the fact, so hard to grasp, and yet a fact after all, that no one sees the beautiful in nature exactly as his fellow sees it.

While this exquisite scene had taken such complete possession of the man that he almost seemed winged, transported out of all grosser affections in the contemplation of its beauty, the woman had also looked at it with pleasure, but the effect on her had been different. The joy its beauty gave her quickened her pulses, and made her long yet more impatiently for the earthly happiness which she felt was nearly hers. The change in Rudolf's manner made her almost sure that he would ask her to be his wife. And so her eyes had soon left the lofty, dazzling Blumlis Alp and had settled on the face beside her-far more beautiful to her in that moment of exquisite enjoyment than anything else could be.

Before either of them had spoken again, Riesen's harsh voice broke into the still

ness. "My good friends, we are late as it is; the boat people will think we are not coming."

Engemann and Madame Carouge started at the interruption; this annoyed the clockmaker and amused his wife.

"Isn't it lovely?" she said; "like a fairy scene at the theatre; you can hardly tear yourselves away. Ah! that's so natural!" She gave a deep sigh; then, turning to her husband, she said, briskly, "We must go down the broad steps, Eugène; that is the shortest way, you know."

He

They soon reached the principal flight of steps leading down into the town, and while Madame Riesen stopped to raise her skirt, her husband placed himself once more next Madame Carouge. felt ill used; it seemed to him that in asking Engemann to seat himself beside her, and then remaining alone with this young fellow, the widow had completely thrown aside restraint, and had treated him with scant courtesy.

Now they recross the bridge, and turning to the left, follow the Aar, past the garden of the quaint old hotel, past a house or two nestled among close-growing trees, then beneath a winding avenue which casts on their path exquisite green shadows, here and there barred with golden sunshine. The river that borders one side of the sequestered path is deepest blue-green, into which some willow-trees reflect themselves grayly. Now an island parts the river into two embracing arms, and on it is a boat-house wreathed in vines, and these, golden as the sun touches their leaves, paint themselves in yellow on the bluegreen water. Now the path diverges a little; they pass a vine-covered chalet so bowered in climbing plants that one wonders how the outside wooden shutters can ever be closed. Through the vine leaves that garland the windows, orange nasturtiums and red geraniums are glowing, and over the shed on one side a Virginia creeper has already turned to vivid firecolor.

Gardens with fruit-laden trees now lie between the path and the river; and then all at once they come to an open space, a grassed church-yard with crosses wreathed with flowers, and mounds covered with loving tokens. In the midst of all a little church rears its slender red-capped tower, the white walls so richly clad with rose and flame colored leaves that under this glowing light they seem to burn.

A narrow path leads down to the river outside the low boundary wall of the church-yard. Here is a little landingplace between the church-yard and a lovely garden. A gayly painted boat, with red cushions and a striped orange and red awning, is waiting here for its freight.

A strip of grass parts the church-yard from the river, and this is bordered by a long row of stately hollyhocks, the blossoms on their tall spires crimson, yellow, and creamy white.

Engemann had walked along in too absorbed a state to notice Madame Riesen's chatter. There had been something dreamlike in the subdued light in the avenue, in the unreal tints on the water, and then in the sudden vision of the slender church tower with clinging flame-hued leaves rising out of its nest of circling trees.

But when they drew near the landingplace Madame Carouge stood still till Rudolf came up to her. She pointed to the many-colored screen of hollyhocks through which across the river showed the town, surmounted by its castle and church, and framed by the dark pine woods stretching on till they seemed to reach the lake.

"Yes, it is all charming," said Engemann, and then he offered his arm to help her into the boat.

But here he was superseded. A strong brown hand gasped the arm of Madame Carouge, and a broad, upturned red face showed merry blue eyes and a row of strong white teeth.

"You are welcome, lady," the sturdy boat-woman said. "I began to think you were not coming. Aline, attention!"

By this time Monsieur and Madame Riesen, Engemann, and the widow were all seated. Just as Madame Carouge saw herself compelled to take a seat beside the clockmaker, she clapped her hands gayly. "Change with me, Monsieur Engemann," she said. "You and Monsieur Riesen are the heaviest, and I shall feel safer if you sit together."

The girl Aline, a young, good-looking likeness of her mother, but equally brown and sturdy, seated herself between a pair of heavy oars. She was bare-headed, but her face was tied up in white linen.

"Only the toothache," the mother said, in answer to Madame Riesen's question. "She is not yet accustomed to the damp from the river."

She herself, standing erect in the stern

of the boat, shaded by a round black hat, looked completely weather-proof as she drove her long pole into the wall of the garden terrace, and pushed the boat out into the stream.

Soon they had floated past the little wall covered with flowers that reached the water's edge, and all at once the lake opened before them, broad and still, with mountains rising out of it as far as eye could reach. The higher line of snowy Alps had veiled itself now with clouds, and the purple, pyramid-like Niesen was only partly visible, for the wreath of vapor that had circled it reached to its top.

"Niesen has got his night-cap on," the clockmaker said, "but the day may be fine in spite of that."

The boat-woman did not answer; she was looking at the handsome couple, and decided in her own mind that they were made for one another.

She had been sharp-witted enough to understand Madame Carouge's manœuvre in changing her seat, and she began to talk volubly to Monsieur Riesen, and compelled him to talk in return.

So they glided on; the awning sheltered them from the glare, but the heat was oppressive.

Madame Carouge raised her eyes, full of soft languor, to her companion's face.

Is not this an exquisite scene?" she said, in a low voice. "Do you enjoy it?"

"Yes;" but Engemann did not want to talk, and he went on dreaming. He could not have said what his thoughts were, for there was little sequence in them; perhaps at that moment he realized the enjoyment of a lotus-eater. It seemed to him delightful to drift silently on and on amid this ever-changing beauty, and the talk of the clockmaker and his wife with the boat-woman jarred him. When sometimes he looked at his companion he felt that she harmonized with her surroundings; her eyes, her attitude, were full of languid repose.

But this appearance of repose was deceptive; there was fire beneath. She could not understand his cold reserve, and her feelings rose in protest against it, but she resolved to leave him to himself.

"If he cares for me," she thought, "he must soon speak.”

Engemann was quite unconscious of her suffering; he felt steeped to the lips in blissful rest, and he gave himself up to it. So they glided on.

ture of the years she passed among those she loved, and to record the events of her family existence, as she would have written them for her familiar friends.

Bacon says that "men in great place are thrice servants-servants of the sovereign or state, servants of fame, and servants of business-so as they have no freedom, neither in their persons nor in their actions nor in their times. It is a strange desire to seek power and to lose liberty, or to seek power over others and to lose power over a man's self." But in the case of a prince born in the purple, great place has not been sought, but has come. When the Chancellor, who knew so well "the pains of rising into place by which men come to greater pains," wrote that "the vices of authority are chiefly four-delays, corruption, roughness, and facility" he could not have foreseen how needless it was to warn all princes "not to drive away such as bring information as meddlers, but to accept them in good part."

It might be supposed that there is no difference between the mode of life of the Prince and Princess of Wales at Sandringham and that of a great Norfolk squire and his wife. But it would not be altogether true. The Prince of Wales is the greatest personage in England save one, just as the Princess of Wales is the greatest lady except the Queen. The Prince and Princess have indeed combined most happily the inevitable responsibilities of their inheritance with the discharge of the duties of their position as the squire of a great estate and the squire's wife, the possession of which would entitle them to a foremost place in the county if the squire were not heir-apparent and representative of the royal lines which merged in the house of Hanover, and if his wife were not child of the royal Dane, "the Viking's daughter." But " princes are like to heavenly bodies, which cause much veneration, but have no rest." To Sandringham repair ministers, diplomatists, travellers, musicians, painters, poets, dramatists, and players. To be asked to Sandringham" is the coveted reward, next in degree to the honor of being bidden to Windsor, Osborne, or Balmoral, of those who do the state service; but those who have not won the greatest renown in arms by land or sea, or in high places, may hope, in virtue of their social qualities, distinction in arts or literature, or individual achievements, to be welcomed to San

dringham, without exciting any of the feeling which formerly made so wide and deep a gap between Carlton House and Wind

sor.

The history of the various families who inherited the estate or succeeded to it from time to time, traced from a period antecedent to the Conquest, would furnish a striking illustration of the changes which have passed over the land, and would, in fact, constitute an epitome of the history of England for upward of nine hundred years. It will be seen by referring to the county history, left unfinished by the ingenious Mr. Parkin, who continued the great work of Dr. Blomefield, that the possessors of Sandringham rarely remained lords of the soil for more than a century. And indeed there could have been little to attract those who owned it to select Sandringham as a permanent residence.

In 1862 Lord Palmerston recommended the estate to the notice of the Prince Consort, then in search of a suitable residence for his son, and as Mr. Spencer Cowper, the owner, was willing to sell, the purchase was effected for the sum of £220,000, or $1,000,000, and in 1863 the Prince of Wales entered on the ownership of Sandringham. The estate contains a little over eight thousand acres-one-third being very good mixed soil, one-third grass, marsh, and arable, and one-third of a kind suited to game coverts, and best left to pheasants and rabbits-and although the Cowpers improved the property, the price for which it was sold was certainly tenfold that for which it could have been purchased in the time of Charles II. But the desert may, indeed, be said to have bloomed into a garden since the manorhouse was handed over to the royal tenant, who with his young wife was for some time lodged in a house on the estate while the mansion was being fitted for their reception.

Norfolk, rejoicing in its claim to be the birth-place of many illustrious Englishmen, and proud of its close connection with some of the greatest events which mark our annals,* hailed the happy acci

From Norfolk went forth many of the early emigrants to the American colonies-Henry Spelman, John Rolfe, husband of Pocahontas, etc.; and the names of many old Norfolk families are reproduced and perpetuated in the States. Mrs. Jones

says: "It is not alone the relations of Coke and Roger Williams which have given to some spots in New England and elsewhere a flavor of this island's