Years had passed away since last he prayed. In this dark hour the Great Being came to his mind who teaches the stars their courses and rides on the storm, and who has created only one creature which defies its Maker—man. In this hour he was impelled to uplift his soul to Him. "Eternal Might, I fly from Thee, yet to Thee I come. I come not to ask for mercy: Thou didst lead me, but I fled from Thy ways; Thou didst warn me, yet I would not hear. Now, with blind obedience, I depart for the hereafter: my soul will rest there in cold annihilation. I must atone for making so many miserable who have been mine and have loved me; take them into Thy protection, Thou Eternal Justice! I have sinned, and I give myself up to death and damnation—they are not guilty—I alone. Thou Everlasting Justice, who hast brought me to this, be just also to them. Protect, console these feeble women, the helpless child, and give me alone over to Thine avenging angels—I am judged and I am silent."

He knelt down. Between the edges of the fissure the waves of the Balaton plashed softly. The gloomy lake often moans even in a dead calm, and when its surface is ice-bound it swells up in the clefts and roars like the sea. Timar bent down to kiss the waves, as one kisses his mother before he starts for a long journey—as one kisses the pistol before blowing out one's brains with it.

And as he bent down to the water, a human head rose from the depths in front of him. Over the forehead of the upturned face was a black band covering the right eye; the other eye, bloodshot, glassy, and cold as stone, glared at him; through the open mouth the water ran out and in . . . the phantom sunk again.

Timar sprung, half crazed, from his kneeling position, and stared after the ghostly apparition: it was as if it called on him to follow. Between the frozen margins the living water splashed. And again in the distance resounded the organ-tones which are the precursors of the nocturnal storm: amidst the howling of the approaching gale were heard the shrieks and groans of the miserable spirits, and higher and higher swelled the ghostly song. Again the whole frozen mass gave out the unearthly music, like the strings of myriad harps, until the sound grew into a booming roar, as though the lightning lured an awful, deafening melody from the resounding waves. The voices of the storm bellowed below the surface. With a frightful crash the floes were set in motion, and the tremendous pressure of the atmosphere closed once more the chasm in the ice.

Timar fell trembling on his face upon the still quivering glassy mirror.



CHAPTER VI.

WHO COMES?

The hoar-frost had turned the ownerless island into a silver wood; continuous mists had hung every twig with flowers of rime. Then came bright sunny days; they melted the rime into ice: every branch received a crystal cloak, as if the whole island were of glass. This glistening load bent down the boughs like those of a weeping-willow, and when the wind stirred the wood, the icicles struck together and rang like the silver bells in the fairy stories. Over the thickly frosted paths only one track led from the house, and that went to Therese's resting-place. This was Noemi's daily walk with little Dodi. Now there were only those two to go there; the third, Almira, lay at home at the last gasp: the ball had touched a vital part, and there was no hope of cure.

It was evening. Noemi lighted her lamp, brought out her wheel, and began to spin. Little Dodi sat by her and played at water-mills, holding a straw against the revolving wheel.

"Mother," said the boy suddenly, "bend down a little; I want to whisper that Almira may not hear."

"Say it aloud; she won't understand, Dodi."

"Oh, yes, she understands what we say—she knows everything. Tell me, will Almira die?"

"Yes, my little one."

"And who will take care of us when Almira is dead?"

"God."

"Is God strong?"

"Stronger than all the world."

"More than father?"

"Your father gets his strength from God."

"And the wicked man with his eye bandaged, why does God make him strong? I am so afraid of his coming again; he will take me away."

"Don't be afraid; I won't let you go."

"If he kills us both?"

"Then we shall both go to heaven."

"And Almira too?"

"No; not Almira."

"Why not?"

"Because she is an animal."

"And my little bird?"

"No; not Louise."

"Oh, don't say that; she can fly up to heaven better than we can."

"She can not fly as high as heaven."

"Then there are no animals and no birds there? Well, then, I'd rather stop down here with papa and my little Louise."

"Yes, stay, my sweetheart!"

"If papa were here he would kill the wicked man?"

"The bad man would run away from him."

"But when is father coming back?"

"This winter."

"How do you know?"

"He said so."

"Is everything true that father says? Does he never tell a story?"

"No, my boy; what he says is always true."

"But it is winter now."

"He will soon be here."

"If only Almira does not die before he comes!"

The boy got up from his stool and went to the groaning dog.

"Dear Almira, do not die! Don't leave us alone here! See, now, you can't go with us to heaven; you can only be with us here. Do stay. I will build you a lovely house like the one father built for me, and give you half of all I have. Lay your head on my lap and look at me. Don't be frightened; I won't let the naughty man come and shoot you again. If I hear him coming, I will fasten the door-latch; and if he puts his hand in, I will cut it off with my ax. I will take care of you, Almira."

The wise creature raised its beautiful eyes to the boy, and wagged its tail gently on the ground; then it sighed, as if understanding all that was said. Noemi stopped spinning, leaned her head on her hand, and looked into the flickering lamp.

When that dreadful man went raging away, he had yelled in at the window, "I shall come back and tell you what the man is whom you love." That he should come again was threat enough, but what did he mean? Who can Michael be? Can he be other than he seems? What will that horrid phantom have to tell, which has turned up from the antipodes? Oh, why had Michael not done as Noemi said—if only three feet of earth lay between them!

Noemi was no feeble woman; she had grown up in the desert and learned to trust in herself; the enervating influences of the outer world had never affected her mind. The wolf knows how to defend her lair against the dogs with claws and teeth. Since that fearful visit she always carried Michael's knife in her bosom, and—it is keen and sharp. At night she fastened a beam across the door.

As fate wills. If one comes first, she will be a happy and blessed woman; if the other, she will be a murderess—a child of wrath.

"Almira, what is the matter?"

The poor beast, struggling with death, raised its head painfully from the child's lap, and began to sniff the air with outstretched neck. It whined and growled uneasily, but the sound was more like a hoarse rattle. Whether its tones were of pleasure or anger, it was hard to distinguish. The animal scented the approach of a visitor. Who is it? Is it the good or the bad man? the life-giver or the murderer? Out there in the silence of the night the sound of steps was heard on the frosty grass. Who comes?

Almira gasped heavily, struggling to get up, but fell back. She tried to bark, but could not. Noemi sprung from her seat, felt with her right hand under her shawl, and seized the handle of the knife.

All three listened silently—Noemi, Dodi, and the dog. The steps come quickly nearer. Ah, now all three recognize them!

"Papa!" cried Dodi, laughing.

Noemi hastened to cut the rope which fastened the door-bolt with her sharp knife, and Almira raised herself on her fore-feet and suddenly gave utterance to a bark.

The next moment Michael had Noemi and Dodi in his arms. Almira crawled to her beloved master, raised her head to him once again, licked his hand, then fell back dead.

"Will you never leave us again?" faltered Noemi.

"Don't leave us alone any more," begged little Dodi.

Michael pressed both to his breast, and his tears streamed over his dear ones. "Never—never—never!"



CHAPTER VII.

THE CORPSE.

With the last days of March the hard winter of this year came to an end. Balmy south winds and rain softened the ice of the Platten See, which broke up during a strong north wind, and drove over to the Somogy shore.

Among the floating ice the fishermen found a body. It was already in an advanced stage of decomposition, and the features were unrecognizable; but yet the identity of the individual could be ascertained with the greatest certainty. These were the mortal remains of Michael Timar Levetinczy, who disappeared so suddenly after the memorable capture of the fogasch-king, and for whose return those at home had waited so long. On the body could be recognized clothes belonging to that gentleman—his astrakhan pelisse, his studs, and his initials marked on the shirt. His repeater was in the waistcoat-pocket, with his full name enameled on the case. But the strongest proof was afforded by the pocket-book, which was crammed with bank-notes, whose number could still be deciphered, and on which Timea's hand had embroidered "Faith, Hope, Charity;" while in the side-pocket were four other letters tied together, but the writing was completely obliterated, as they had been four months exposed to the action of water. About the same time, the fishermen at Fured found Herr von Levetinczy's gun entangled in a net. Now all was explained.

Old Galambos remembered all about it. The gracious master had said to him that if foxes and wolves came down on to the lake in the night, he would go out with his gun and have a shot at them.

Many others then remembered that on that night a snow-storm had passed across the lake, which only lasted a short time. No doubt, to this was due the accident to the noble lord. The snow blew in his face; he did not notice the ice-rift, fell in, and was sucked under.

When Timea received the first news of the event, she went at once to Siosok, and was present in person at the judicial inquiry. When she saw her husband's clothes she fainted away, and could only with difficulty he brought back to consciousness; but she held her ground, she was present when the disfigured remains were laid in the leaden coffin, and specially inquired for the ring of betrothal, which, however, was lost—the fingers were gone.

Timea had the dear relics brought to Komorn, and interred in the splendid family vault, with all the pomp which is permissible by the rites of the Protestant Church, to which the deceased had belonged. On the black velvet coffin, name and age were marked with silver nails. Senators and deputies carried him to the hearse. On the coffin lay his knightly sword, with a laurel crown, and the decorations of the Hungarian Order of St. Stephen, the Italian Order of San Maurizio, and the Brazilian Annunciata star.

The pall-bearers were Hungarian counts, and on each side of the hearse walked the dignitaries of the city. Before it marched the school-children, the guilds with their banners, then the national guard in uniform and with muffled drums: behind came the ladies of the town all in black, and among them the mourning widow, with the white face and with weeping eyes. The celebrities of the country and the capital, the military authorities, even his majesty had sent a representative to the funeral of the venerated man. With them went a countless multitude of people, and amidst the tolling of all the bells the procession moved through the town. And every bell and every tongue proclaimed that a man was gone whose like would never be seen again: a benefactor of the people, a pillar of the nation, a faithful husband, and the founder of many a generous endowment.

The "Man of Gold" was carried to his grave. Women, men, and children followed him through the whole town to the distant cemetery. Athalie too was in the procession. When they bore the coffin down to the open grave, the nearest friends, relations, and admirers of the deeply mourned followed him into the vault.

Among them was Major Katschuka; in the crowd on the narrow steps he came in contact with Timea and—with Athalie. When they came up again, Athalie threw herself on the bier and prayed to be buried too: luckily Herr Johann Fabula was there, and he raised the beautiful lady from the ground, bore her back in his arms to the daylight, and explained to the astonished crowd how much the young lady had loved the dear deceased, who had been a second father to her.

After the lapse of a few months a splendid monument was erected on which might be read this inscription in letters of gold:—

HERE LIES THE HIGH AND NOBLE LORD, MICHAEL TIMAR LEVETINCZY.

Privy Councilor, President of Committees, Knight of the Orders of St. Stephen, St. Maurice, and the Annunciata. The great Patriot, the True Christian, the Exemplary Husband, the Father of the Poor, Guardian of the Orphan, Supporter of Schools, a Pillar of the Church.

Regretted by all who knew him, eternally mourned by his

FAITHFUL WIFE TIMEA.

On the granite pedestal stands a marble statue of a woman bearing a funeral urn. Every one says this statue is a faithful likeness of Timea.

And Timea goes every day to the burial-ground to deck the grass with fresh wreaths, and to water the flowers which smell so sweetly within the railings of the tomb: she waters them with showers of cold water—and burning tears.

* * * * *

Theodor Krisstyan could never have dreamed that he would be so highly honored after his death.



CHAPTER VIII.

DODI'S LETTER.

A year and a half passed away since Michael came home to the ownerless island. He had not left it for a single day.

Great events had occurred during this interval. Dodi had learned to write. What joy when the little dunce made his first attempt with chalk on a board: the letters are dictated to him—"write l and o, and then pronounce them both together." He was surprised that that meant lo (Hungarian for horse), and yet he had not drawn a horse. A year later he could address a birthday letter to his mother in beautiful copper-plate on white paper—it was a greater achievement than Cleopatra's Needle, covered with hieroglyphics.

When Dodi's first letter was fluttering in Noemi's hand, she said, with a tear in her eye, to Michael, "He will write like you."

"Where have you seen my handwriting?" asked Michael, in surprise.

"In the copies you set Dodi, to begin with; and then too in the contract by which you gave us the island. Have you forgotten?"

"Yes; it is so long ago."

"And do you not write to any one now?"

"No one."

"You have not left the island for a year and a half; have you nothing to do now out in the world?"

"No. And I shall never have anything to do there again."

"What will become of your business then?"

"Would you like to know?"

"Yes, indeed. The thought troubles me that a clever man like you should be shut up here in the narrow bounds of this island, and only because you love us: if you have no other reason for staying here always except your great love for us, it pains me."

"It is well, Noemi. I will tell you then who I was out there in the world, what I did there, and why I stay here. You shall know all: when you have put the boy to bed, come to me on the veranda and I will tell you everything. You will shudder and wonder over what you will hear; but in the end you will forgive me, as God forgave me when He sent me here."

After supper Noemi put Dodi to bed, and then came out to Michael, sat beside him on the bench, and leaned on his breast. The full moon shone down on them between the leaves: it was now no longer the ghostly star, the ice-paradise of suicides, but a kind acquaintance and friend. And then Michael told Noemi all that had befallen him out in the world.

The sudden death of the mysterious passenger, the sinking of the ship and the concealed treasures: how he had married Timea. He described her sorrow and her suffering; he spoke of Timea to Noemi as of a saint; and when he described faithfully the nocturnal scene when he had watched Timea from his hiding-place, and how the woman had defended her husband against evil report, against her own beloved, and against her own heart, how Noemi sobbed and how her tears flowed for Timea!

And then Michael described to her what he had suffered in the fearful situation from which he could not free himself, having on one side the ties of his worldly position, his riches, and Timea's fidelity; while his love, his happiness, and every aspiration of his soul drew him in another direction. How sweetly Noemi consoled him with her soft kisses! . . .

When, finally, he told her of the awful night in which the adventurer appeared at his lonely castle, of how despair had led him to the brink of the grave, and how, as he looked down into the waves, instead of his own face mirrored in the water, the dead face of his enemy emerged from the depths, and God's hand suddenly closed before his eyes the opening of the icy tomb—oh! how passionately Noemi pressed him to her breast, as if to hold him back from falling into the grave.

"Now you know what I have left behind in the world, and what I have found here. Can you forgive me for what you have suffered and for all my offenses against you?" Noemi's tears and kisses replied.

The confession had lasted long: the short summer's night was over, and it was daylight when Michael concluded the story of his life.

He was forgiven. "My guilt is obliterated," said Michael. "Timea had recovered her freedom and her wealth. The vagabond had on my clothes and carried my pocket-book away with him: they will bury his body as if it were mine, and Timea is a widow. I have given you my soul, and you have accepted it. Now all is equal."

Noemi took Michael's arm and led him into the room where the boy was asleep. He awoke under their kisses, opened his eyes, and when he saw that it was morning, he knelt up in his little bed, and with folded hands offered his morning prayer: "Dear Lord, bless my good father and my dear mother!"

"All is forgiven, Michael! . . . One angel prays for you beside your bed, the other at your grave, that you may be happy."

Noemi dressed little Dodi, and then her eyes rested thoughtfully on Michael. She wanted time to realize all she had heard from him, but women have quick perceptions.

Suddenly Noemi said to her husband, "Michael, you have still one duty to fulfill in the world."

"What duty, and to whom?"

"You owe Timea the secret that other woman revealed to you."

"What secret?"

"About the door which leads into her room from the secret passage. You must tell her of it. Some one might get in to her when she is asleep and alone."

"But no one knows of this secret passage except Athalie."

"Is that not enough?"

"What do you mean?"

"Michael, you little know us women. You don't know what Athalie is, but I can guess. My tears flowed for Timea, because she is so wretched, because she does not love you, and you are mine; but if she felt for you what she feels for that other man, and if you spurned me for her sake, as that man did Athalie, then may God keep me from ever seeing her asleep and in my power!"

"Noemi, you frighten me."

"That is what women are. Did you never know it. Hasten to reveal this secret to Timea. I want her to be happy."

Michael kissed Noemi on the brow. "You darling child! I dare not write to Timea, for she would recognize my writing; and then she could not be my widow, nor I your husband returned from the dead, and ascended into the paradise of your love."

"Then I will write to her."

"No, no, no! I won't allow it. I have heaped gold and diamonds upon her, but she shall not have a word from you; that is one of my own treasures. I brought Noemi nothing of Timea's, and I will not give Timea anything of Noemi's. You shall not write her a word."

"Well, then," said Noemi, smiling, "I know another who can write to Timea. Dodi shall write the letter."

Timar burst out laughing. There was a world of humor, of child-like simplicity, happy pride, and deep emotion in the idea. Little Dodi will write to warn Timea of her danger. Dodi to Timea! . . . Timar smiled with tears in his eyes. But Noemi was in earnest; she wrote the copy, and Dodi wrote the important lines on ruled paper, without a mistake. Of course he had no idea what he was writing. Noemi gave him a lovely violet ink, a decoction of marsh-mallow, and sealed the letter with white wax; and as there was no seal in the house, nor even a coin which could serve for one, Dodi caught a pretty golden-green beetle, and stuck it on the wax, instead of a coat of arms. The letter was given to the fruit-dealer to take to the post.

Little Dodi's letter went off to Timea.



CHAPTER IX.

"YOU STUPID CREATURE!"

The lovely widow was in the deepest mourning. She went nowhere, and received no visitors.

More than a year had passed since her husband's burial.

Timea had another name in the calendar—Susanna. Her first name came from her mother, who was a Greek; but the second she had received at her baptism. This she used when she had to sign documents, and St. Susanna's day was considered her fete.

In provincial towns the fete-days are scrupulously kept. Relations and friends come without invitation, as a matter of course, to visit the person whose fete it is, and meet with a hospitable reception. Some noble families, however, have adopted the custom of sending invitations to these family-parties, by which it is made evident that those who do not receive cards may keep their congratulations to themselves.

There are two St. Susannas in the year. Timea chose the one whose fete fell in winter, because then her husband used to be at home, and invitations were sent out a week beforehand. Of the other name no notice was taken. Timea was not in the calendar of Komorn, nor even in the national Pesth calendar, and at that time there were no others in the province; so he who wanted to know Timea's own fete-day must search far and wide.

It fell in the merry month of May. At that season Herr Timar would have been long away on his journeys; nevertheless, Timea received every May a lovely bouquet of white roses on the day of St. Timea. Who sent it was not stated; it came by post, packed in a box.

As long as Timar lived, Herr Katschuka had invariably received invitations to the Sunday receptions, which he as regularly answered by depositing his card at the door: he never came to the parties. This year the fete-day party had been omitted, as the faithful Susanna was in mourning. On the morning of the lovely May day on which Timea's beautiful white-rose bouquet usually arrived, a servant in mourning livery brought a letter to Katschuka. On opening the envelope the major found a printed invitation-card inside, which bore the name, not of Susanna, but of Timea Levetinczy, and had reference to that very day. Herr Katschuka was puzzled. What a curious notion of Timea! To draw the attention of all Komorn to the fact that Susanna, a good Calvinist, was keeping the day of the Greek saint Timea, and the more because she only sent out her invitations the same morning! It was an outrageous breach of etiquette. Herr Katschuka felt that this time he must accept. In the evening he took care not to be among the earliest arrivals. The time named was half past eight; he waited till half past nine, and then went. As he laid aside his cloak and sword in the anteroom, he asked the servant whether many visitors had arrived. The servant said no one had come yet. The major was startled. Probably the other guests had taken the shortness of the invitation badly, and decided not to appear; and he was confirmed in this idea when, on entering the saloon, he found the chandeliers lighted and all the rooms brilliantly illuminated—a sign that a large assembly was expected. The servant informed him that his mistress was in the inner room.

"Who is with her?"

"She is alone. Fraulein Athalie has gone with her mamma to Herr Fabula's house—there is a great fish-dinner there."

Herr Katschuka did not know what to think: not only were there no other guests, but even the people of the house had left the mistress alone. Timea awaited him in her own sitting-room.

And for this grand party, amid all this splendor, Timea was dressed entirely in black. She celebrated her fete-day in mourning: amid the radiance of the golden lusters and the silver candelabra a black mourning-dress, which, however, was not suited to the face of its wearer. On her lips hovered a charming smile, and a soft color lay on her cheeks. She received her single guest most cordially. "Oh, how late you are," she said, as she gave him her hand.

The major pressed upon it a respectful kiss. "On the contrary, I fear I am the first."

"Not at all. All I invited have already arrived."

"Where?" asked the major, in astonishment.

"In the dining-room—they are at table, and only waiting for you." With these words she took the arm of the wondering man, led him to the folding-doors, and threw them open; and then, indeed, the major knew not what to think. The dining-room was brilliantly lighted with wax candles; a long table was spread with places for eleven, and the same number of chairs were placed round it, but no one was there—not a single creature. But as the major threw a glance round he began to comprehend, and the clearer the riddle grew, the more his eyes were dimmed with tears. Before each of nine of the places stood a white-rose bouquet under a glass shade—the last of freshly gathered flowers; the roses of the others were dry, faded, and yellow.

"Look, they are all there which greeted me on Timea's fete-day year after year—these are my birthday guests. There are nine of them. Will you be the tenth? Then all whom I have invited will have assembled."

The major, in speechless delight, pressed the lovely hand to his lips. "My poor roses—"

Timea did not refuse him that privilege—possibly she would have allowed even more; but the widow's cap stood in the way, and Timea felt it.

"Do you want me to exchange this cap for another?"

"From that day I shall begin to live again."

"Let us set apart for it my own fete-day, which every one knows."

"Oh, but that is so far off."

"Don't be alarmed, there is a St. Susanna in the summer; we will keep her day."

"But that is distant too."

"It is not an eternity to wait till then. Have you not learned patience? Remember, I want time to get used to happiness—it does not come all at once; and we can see each other every day till then—at first for a minute, and then for two, and then forever. Is it agreed?"

The major could not refuse, she begged so sweetly.

"And now the banquet is over," whispered Timea; "the other guests are going to sleep, and you must go home too. But wait a moment—I will give you back a word from your last birthday congratulations." She took from the fresh rose-bouquet one bud, touched it hardly perceptibly with her lips, and placed it in the major's button-hole; but he pressed the rose, this "one word," to his lips and kissed it. . . .

When the major had gone, and looked up from the street at the windows of the Levetinczy house, all was dark. He was the last to leave.

Timea learned gradually the art of growing used to hope and happiness—she had a good teacher. Thenceforward, Herr Katschuka came every day to the house; but the major did not keep to the prescribed arithmetical progression—first one minute, then two. The wedding was fixed for the day of St. Susanna, in August. Athalie too, it appeared, had resigned herself to her fate. Herr Fabula's wife was dead, and she accepted his hand; it is not unusual for a pretty girl to give herself to a rich widower—one knows how he treats his wife, and one runs less risk in taking him than some young dandy who has not yet sown his wild oats. Heaven bless their union!

Timea proposed to give Athalie, as a dowry, the sum which Michael had offered her, and which she had refused. Every one thought she was trying to become a suitable wife for Herr Fabula. But Katschuka was not deceived; he saw through her black heart. He knew what he had done to Athalie, and the reckoning she had against Timea, and destiny never leaves such a score unsettled. Have you forgotten, you lovely white woman, that this other girl was mistress here when you came; that she was a rich and honored bride, wooed by men and envied by women? And from the moment when the water cast you on these shores, misfortune followed her—she was made a beggar, brought to shame, spurned by her betrothed. It was not your fault, but it was owing to you—you brought bad luck; it sat on your forehead, between your meeting eyebrows, and brought the ship to destruction, and the house in which you set foot; it ruins those who injure you, as well as those who set you free. And you are not afraid to sleep under the same roof with Athalie—this roof!

Since Katschuka came to the house, Athalie had controlled herself, and treated even her mother kindly. She made tea for her which Frau Sophie liked, especially with plenty of rum in it—she made it herself; and was very good to the servants too, treating them also to tea, which, for the men-servants, almost might have been called punch; they could not say enough for her. Frau Sophie guessed the reason of all this kindness—those servile natures always look for a reason if they receive a favor, and repay it with suspicion.

"My daughter is currying favor with me, that I may go with her when she marries; she knows nothing of housekeeping—she can't even make milk-soup. That's why I am 'Dear mamma' all over the place, and get tea every night; as if I did not know what is in my daughter Athalie's mind!" She will soon know even more.

Athalie carried her submissiveness to servility, in the presence of Timea and the major. Neither by look nor manner did she betray her former claims. When he came, she opened the door with a smile, showed him in to Timea, politely took part in the conversation, and, when she left the room, she might be heard singing next door. She had adopted the manners of a maid-servant.

Once Timea asked her to play a duet, on which Athalie said, modestly, that she had forgotten her music—the only instrument she could play on now was the chopping-board. Since the great catastrophe, Athalie only played the piano when she knew no one could hear.

Do not your nerves shudder when this woman looks you in the face? does not your blood run cold when she stoops to kiss your hand? when she laces your boots, is it not as if a snake wound round your foot? and when she fills your glass, does it not occur to you to look what may be in it? No, no. Timea has no suspicions; she is so kind, she treats Athalie like a sister; she has prepared a dowry of a hundred thousand gulden, and told Athalie so. She wished to make her happy, and thought she could console her for the loss of her first betrothed. And why should she not think so? Athalie herself refused him. When Timar offered her the money she said, "I will never have anything to do with the man again, either in this world or the next." Timea did not know of the visit Athalie had paid by night to her betrothed, when she was sent away by him alone and rejected; and Timea did not know that a woman will give up the man she hates to another woman, even less willingly than the one she loves; that a woman's hate is only love turned to poison, but still remains love. Katschuka, however, well remembered that nocturnal meeting; and therefore he trembled for Timea, but dared not tell her so.

Only one day was wanting to the fete of St. Susanna. Timea had gradually laid aside her mourning, as if it was hard to separate from it entirely, and as if she wished to learn gladness slowly. First she allowed white lace at her neck; then she changed black for dark gray, and silk for wool; then white stripes appeared in the gray; and at last only the cap remained of the mourning for Michael Levetinczy. This also will disappear on the fete-day; the beautiful Valenciennes cap of the young wife is already made, and must be tried on.

An unlucky fit of vanity induced Timea to wait to do this till the major arrived. For a young widow the lace cap is what the orange-blossoms are to a girl. But the major was late because the white-rose bouquet was late in arriving from Vienna: this was the second fete-day bouquet in one year. A whole shoal of letters and notes of congratulation had arrived for Timea, who had many acquaintances far and near. Timea had not opened a single one; they lay in a heap in a silver basket on the table, many of them directed by children, for Timea had a hundred and forty god-children in the town among the orphan boys and girls. She would have enjoyed these naive letters, but her thoughts were otherwise occupied.

"Look what a comical one this is!" said Athalie, taking up one of the letters; "instead of a seal, there is a beetle stuck on the wax."

"And what curious ink it is!" remarked Timea. "Put it with the others—we will read it to-morrow."

Some secret voice whispered to Timea that she had better read it to-day. It was Dodi's letter which was put aside.

But see, here comes the major; then all the hundred and forty god-children and their letters were forgotten, and Timea ran to meet him. Nine years ago the fortunate bridegroom had brought a splendid red-rose bouquet to another bride.

And she too was present; and possibly the great mirror into which Athalie had cast her last glance on her bridal dress was the same which now stood there.

Timea took the lovely white bouquet from the major's hand, put it in a splendid Sevres vase, and whispered to him, "Now I will give you something: it will never be yours, but always mine, and yet it is a present for you." The pretty enigma issued from its box—it was the lace cap.

"Oh, how charming!" cried the major, taking it in his hand. "Shall I try it on you?" The major's words died on his lips—he looked at Athalie.

Timea stood before the glass with childish pleasure, and took off her widow's cap; then she grew grave, put it to her lips and kissed it, while she said low and brokenly, "Poor Michael!"—and so she laid aside the last token of her widowhood.

Herr Katschuka was holding the white cap.

"Give it me that I may try it on."

"Can I help you?"

The hair was then dressed very high, so that Timea required assistance.

"You don't know how; Athalie will be so good."

Timea spoke quite simply, but the major shuddered at the pallor which overflowed Athalie's face at the words: he remembered how Athalie had once said to Timea, "Come and put on my bridal veil!" And perhaps even she had not then thought what venom lay in the words. Athalie came to Timea to help her with the cap, which required to be fastened with pins on both sides. Athalie's hand trembled—and she pricked Timea's head with one of the pins.

"Oh, you stupid creature!" cried Timea, jerking her head aside.

The same words, before the same man!

Timea did not notice, but Herr Katschuka saw what a flash flew over Athalie's face—a volcanic outburst of diabolical rage, a glow of flaming spite, a dark cloud of purple shame; the muscles quivered as if the face was a nest of snakes stirred up by a rod. What murderous eyes! What compressed lips! What a bottomless depth of passion in that single look. Timea regretted her hasty word almost before it had passed her lips, and hastened to atone for it. "Don't be angry, dear 'Thaly; I forgot myself," she said, turning to kiss her. "You'll forgive me—you are not angry?"

The next moment Athalie was as humble as a maid who has done some damage, and began in a flattering tone, "Oh, my dear pretty Timea, don't you be angry; I would not hurt your dear little head for the world. How sweet you look in your cap, just like a fairy!" And she kissed Timea's shoulder.

A shudder ran through the major's nerves.



CHAPTER X.

ATHALIE.

The eve of the fete-day was also the eve of the wedding—a night of excitement. The bride and bridegroom were sitting together in Timea's room—they had so much to talk about.

What do they say? Flowers only can understand flower-speech, the stars the language of the spheres, one pillar of Memnon answers another, the dead comprehend the Walkyrie, sleep-walkers the speech of the moon—lovers only the language of love. And he who has ever known this sacred emotion will not profane it, but guard it like a secret of the confessional. Neither the wise king in his marvelous song, nor Ovid in his love elegies, nor Hafiz in his ardent lays, nor Heine in his poems, nor Petofi in his "Pearls of Love," can describe it—it remains one of the secrets of eternity.

At the back of the house was a noisy company—all the household. This had been a busy day with preparations for the morrow's feast—a culinary campaign; the press of work had lasted till late at night: then, when all had been roasted and iced according to orders, Frau Sophie found time to show herself liberal. She called together her staff, and bestowed upon them all the good things which had suffered during the heat of the fray—for this was unavoidable: what ought to have risen had sunk into a pancake; what ought to have jellied had melted into soup; here a cake had stuck to the mold and would not turn out whole; there a scrap, a cutting, a ham-bone, a piece of hare, a drumstick of pheasant remained over. All which could not be sent up to table was left as a rare tidbit for the servants, and they could boast of having tasted everything before the gentry were served.

But where was Athalie?

The whispering lovers thought she was with her mother, amusing herself in the kitchen. There, they thought she was of course with the bridal pair, and enjoying the bliss of being a silent witness of their happiness—or perhaps no one thought of her at all. And yet it might have been well if some one had interrupted themselves to ask, "Where is Athalie?"

She sat alone in the room where she had seen Timea for the first time. The old furniture had long been replaced by new; only one embroidered stool remained as a remembrance. Athalie was sitting on it when Timar entered, in company with the pale maiden. There sat Katschuka, at work on Athalie's portrait, over which, while he gazed at Timea, his pencil drew a long line. Athalie sat alone there now. The portrait had long ago gone to the lumber-room; but Athalie seems to see it still, and the young lieutenant who begged her with his flattering tongue to smile a little and not to look so haughty.

The room was dark; only the moon shone in, but it would soon go down behind the gable of the tall church of St. Andrew.

Athalie reviewed the horrid dream called life. There were wealth, pride, and happiness in it: flatterers had called her the prettiest girl in Komorn, the queen, and pretended to adore her; then came a child by chance into the house—a ridiculous creature, a lifeless shadow, a cold doll, made to be an object of ridicule, to pass the time away by pushing it about. And only two years later, this vagrant, this white phantom, this reptile, was mistress of the house, and conquered hearts, turning a shipping-clerk, by the magic of her marble face, into his master's powerful enemy, into a millionaire, and causing the betrothed bridegroom to be false to his troth.

What a wedding-day was that! The bride, recovering from her swoon, found herself lying alone on the ground. And when splendor and homage were at an end, she longed still to be loved—loved in secret and in concealment. This too was denied her.

What a memory was that!—the path she had trodden to the house of her former lover and back again, twice in the darkness! her vain expectation next day! how she had counted the strokes of the clock, amidst the noise of the auction! And he never came! Then long years of painful dissimulation, of disguised humiliation! There was only one person who understood her—who knew that the balm of her heart was to see her rival share her passion, and fade away under it.

And the one man who knew to his cost what Athalie really was—the only hinderance to Timea's happiness, the finder of the philosopher's stone which exercises everywhere a malevolent spell—that one man finds his death by a single false step on the ice!

And then happiness comes back to the house, and no one is miserable but herself. In many a sleepless night the bitter cup had filled drop by drop up to the brim; only one was wanting to make it overflow; and that last drop was the insulting word, "You stupid creature!" To be scolded like a maid, humbled in his presence! Athalie's limbs shook with fever. What was now going on in the house? They were preparing for the morrow's wedding. In the boudoir whispered the betrothed couple; from the kitchen, even through all the doors, came the noise of the merry-making servants.

But Athalie never heard the cheerful din: she heard only the whisper. . . . She had something to do during the night. . . . There was no light in the room; but the moon shone in, and gave light enough to open a box and read the names of the poisons inside it—the unfailing drugs of an Eastern poisoner. Athalie chose among them, and smiled to herself. What a good jest it would be if to-morrow, at the moment of drinking some toast, the words should die on the lips of the feasting guests! if each saw the face of his neighbor turn yellow and green; if they all sprung up crying for help, and began a demoniac dance, fit to make the devil laugh; if the bride's lovely face petrified into real marble, and the proud bridegroom made grimaces like a skull!

Ping! . . . A string gone in the piano! Athalie started so that she dropped what she held, and her hands twitched convulsively. It was only a string, coward! Are you so weak? She put back the poisons in her box, leaving out only one, and that not a deadly poison, only a sleeping-draught. The first idea had not satisfied her; that triumph would not suffice: it would not be sufficient revenge for "You stupid creature!" The tiger cares not for a corpse, he must have warm blood. Some one will have to take poison, but that is only herself—a poison not to be bought at the chemist's: it lies in the eye of St. George's dragon. She slipped noiselessly out to go to the hiding-place whence a view of Timea's room could be obtained. The sweet murmurs and the caressing looks of the lovers will be the poison she must absorb in order to be fully prepared.

The major was about to take leave, and held Timea's hand in his. Her cheeks were so rosy! Was any more deadly poison needed? They did not speak of love, and yet no third person had a right to listen. The bridegroom asked questions allowed to no one else. "Do you sleep alone here?" he asked, with tender curiosity, lifting the silken hangings of the bed.

"Yes, since I became a widow."

"(And before too," whispered Athalie, behind the dragon.)

The bridegroom, availing himself of his privileges, pursued his researches in the bride's room.

"Where does this door lead to?"

"Into an anteroom where my lady visitors take off their cloaks; you came that way when you visited me the first time."

"And the other little door?"

"Oh, never mind that—it only leads to my dressing-room."

"Has it no exit?"

"None; the water comes by a pipe from the kitchen, and flows away by a tap to the basement."

"And this third door?"

"You know that is the corridor by which you reach the principal entrance."

"And where are the servants at night?"

"The females sleep near the kitchen, and the men in the basement. Over my bed hang two bell-ropes, of which one goes to the women's room and the other to the men's."

"There is no one in the adjoining room?"

"There Sister Athalie and Mamma Sophie sleep."

"Frau Sophie too?"

"Yes, to be sure. You want to know everything. To-morrow it will all be differently arranged."

("To-morrow?")

"And do you lock the door when you go to bed?"

"Never. Why should I? All my servants love me, and are trustworthy; the front door is barred, and I am safe here."

"Is there nowhere a secret entrance to this room?"

"Ha! ha! You seem to take my house for a mysterious Venetian palace!"

("Is it your house? Did you build it?")

"Do, to please me, lock all your doors before you go to bed."

("He seems to guess what we shall all be dreaming of to-night.")

Timea smiled, and smoothed away the frown from the bridegroom's grave face.

"Well, then, for your sake I will lock all my doors to-night."

("See that they are secure," whispered the dragon.)

Then followed a tender embrace and a long, long kiss.

"Do you pray, my beloved?"

"No; for the good God in whom I believe watches ever."

("How if He slept to-day?")

"Forgive me, dearest Timea; skepticism does not become a woman. Her adornment is piety; leave the rest to men. Pray to-night."

"You know I was a Moslem, and was never taught to pray."

"But now you are a Christian, and our prayers are beautiful. Take your prayer-book to-night."

"Yes, for your sake I will learn to pray."

The major found in the book of devotion Timar had once given his wife, the "prayer for brides."

"I will learn it by heart to-night."

"Yes, do so—do so!"

Timea read it aloud. Athalie felt a diabolical rage in her heart. The man will be discovering the secret in the wall; he will keep Timea up praying all night. Curses, curses on the prayer-book!

When the major left the anteroom, Athalie was already there. Timea called from her room to light the major to the door, thinking there would be a servant there as usual; but to-day, as we know, they were engaged in anticipating the morrow's feast. Athalie took the candle which stood outside, and lighted the major along the dark passage. The happy bridegroom had no eyes for any other woman's face—he saw only Timea, and thought it was the maid-servant who opened the door for him. He wished to be generous, and pressed a silver thaler into Athalie's hand; then he started as he recognized the voice.

"I kiss your hand, kind sir."

"Is it you, fraulein? A thousand pardons! I did not recognize you in the darkness."

"No consequence, Herr Major."

"Pardon my blindness, and give me back the insulting present, I beg."

Athalie drew back with a mocking bow, hiding the hand which held the thaler behind her. "I will give it you back to-morrow—leave it with me till then; I have fairly earned it."

Herr Katschuka swore at his stupidity. The inexplicable load he felt on his spirits seemed to have redoubled in weight. When he reached the street, he felt it impossible to go home, but went toward the main guard and said to the officer on duty, "My friend, I invite you to my wedding to-morrow; be so good as to let me share your watch to-night—let us go the rounds together."

In the servants' hall there was great fun. As the major had rung for the porter when he left, the mistress was known to be alone, and her maid went up to ask for orders. Timea thought she was the one who had shown the major out, and told her to go to bed—she would undress herself; so the maid went back to the others.

"If only we had a drop of punch now," said the porter, thrusting the door-key into his pocket.

As if by magic, the door opened, and in came Fraulein Athalie, bearing a tray of steaming glasses, which clinked cheerfully together. "Long live our dear young lady!" cried every one. Athalie set the tray on the table with a smile. Among the glasses stood a basin full of sugar well rubbed over with orange rind, which made it yellow and aromatic. Frau Sophie liked her tea made in that way, with plenty of rum and orange-sugar. "Are you not going to join us?" she asked her daughter.

"Thanks; I had my tea with our gracious lady. My head aches, and I shall go to bed." She wished her mother good-night, and told the servants to go to bed in good time, as they must get up early next day. They fell eagerly on the punch, and found it perfectly delicious. Only Frau Sophie did not like it. When she had tasted the first spoonful, she turned up her nose. "This tastes just like the poppy-syrup that bad nurses give the wakeful babies at night." It was so unpleasant to her that she could not take any more, but gave it to the cook's boy, who had never tasted anything so good before. She said she was tired with her day's work, and conjured the household not to oversleep themselves, and to take care no cat got into the larder; then she said good-night, and followed Athalie.

When she entered their bedroom, Athalie was already in bed. The curtains were drawn; she knew Athalie's way of turning her back to the room and putting her head under the clothes. She hastened to get into bed.

But she could not get rid of the taste of that single spoonful of punch, which spoiled her enjoyment of the whole supper. After she had put out the light, she leaned on her elbow and looked toward the figure in the other bed. She looked, till at last her eyes closed and she fell asleep. Her dreams carried her back to the servants' hall. She seemed to see them all asleep there—the coachman stretched on the long bench, the footman with his head on the table, the groom on the ground, using an overturned chair as a pillow, the cook on the settle, the house-maid on the hearth, and the cook's boy under the table. Before each his empty glass; she alone had not drunk hers. She dreamed that Athalie, with bare feet and in her night-dress, crept up behind her and said in her ear, "Why don't you drink your punch, dear mamma? Do you want more sugar?" and filled the glass with sugar up to the brim. But she noticed the repulsive smell. "I don't want it!" she said in her dream. However, Athalie held the steaming glass to her mouth. She turned away, and pushed the glass from her, and with that movement she upset the bottle of water which stood on the table beside her, and all the water poured into the bed. That thoroughly awoke her.

And still she seemed to see Athalie before her with threatening looks. "Are you awake, Athalie?" she asked, uneasily; no answer. She listened; the sleeper could not be heard to breathe. Sophie got up and went to Athalie's bed; it was empty. She could not trust her eyes in the dim twilight, and felt with her hands: no one there. "Athalie, where are you?" she murmured, anxiously. Receiving no answer, a nameless horror numbed her limbs. She felt blind and dumb; she could not even scream. She listened, and then fancied she was deaf: neither inside nor out was there the faintest sound. Where could Athalie be?

Athalie was in the secret room—she had been there a long time.

The patience of that woman, to be so long learning the prayer by heart! At last Timea shut the book and sighed deeply. Then she took the candle and looked to see that all the doors were locked. She looked behind the curtains; her bridegroom's words had implanted fear in her breast, and she looked round carefully to see if any one could get in. Then she went to the dressing-table, took down her plaits, wound her thick hair round and round her head, and put a net over it. She was not free from vanity, this young creature: that her hands and arms might be white, she rubbed them with salve and put on long gloves. Then she undressed, but before she lay down she went behind the bed, opened a closet, and took out a sword-hilt with a broken blade; looking tenderly at it, she pressed it to her breast. Then she put it under her pillow; she always slept with it there. Athalie saw it all. Timea extinguished the light, and Athalie saw no more; she only heard the clock tick, and had the patience to wait.

She guesses when sleep will close Timea's eyes—that is the time. A quarter of an hour seems like an eternity; at last the clock strikes one. The picture of St. George with his dragon (which is by no means dead) moves aside, and Athalie comes out, barefoot, so that no sound is heard. It is quite dark in the room—the shutters are shut and curtains drawn; her groping hand finds Timea's pillow; she feels underneath, and a cold object meets her hand. It is the sword-hilt. What hell-fire runs through her veins from the cold steel! she too presses it to her heart. She draws the edge of the blade through her lips and feels how sharp it is. But it is too dark to see the sleeper—one can not even hear her gentle breathing; the blow must be well aimed, and Athalie bends her head to listen.

The sleeper moves, and sighs aloud in her dream, "Oh, my God!" Then Athalie strikes in the direction of the sigh. But the blow was not mortal: Timea had covered her head with her right arm, and the sword only hit that, though the sharp steel cut through the glove and wounded her hand. She started up and rose on her knees in the bed; then a second blow caught her head, but the thick hair blunted it, and the sword only cut the forehead down to the eyebrow.

Now Timea seized the blade with her left hand. "Murderer!" she screamed, sprung out of bed, and while the sharp edge cut the inside of her left hand, she caught the enemy with her wounded right hand by the hair. She felt it was a woman's, and now knew who was before her.

There are critical moments in which the mind traverses a chain of thought with lightning speed: this is Athalie; her mother is next door; they want to murder her out of revenge and jealousy; it would be vain to call for help, it is a struggle for life. Timea screamed no more, but collected all her strength in order, with her wounded hand, to draw down her enemy's head and get the murderous weapon from her.

Timea was strong, and a murderer never puts forth his full strength. They struggled silently in the darkness, the carpet deadening their footfalls. Suddenly a cry sounded from the next room. "Murder!" screamed the voice of Frau Sophie: at the sound Athalie's strength gave way.

Her victim's blood streamed over her face. In the next room was heard the sound of falling glass; through the broken window Frau Sophie's screeching voice was heard resounding down the quiet street, "Murder, murder!"

Athalie let go the sword in terror, and put up both hands to loosen Timea's fingers from her hair: now she is the one attacked and she the one alarmed. When she got her hair free, she pushed Timea away, flew to the opening of the hiding-place, and drew the picture gently over the entrance.

Timea tottered forward a few steps with the sword in her hand, and then fell swooning on the carpet.

At Frau Sophie's cry, double-quick march was heard in the street—the patrol was coming—the major was the first to reach the house. Frau Sophie knew him and called out, "Quick, quick! they are killing Timea!" The major tore at the bell, thundered at the door, but no one came; the soldiers tried to burst it in, but it was too strong and would not give way. "Wake the servants," shouted the major. Frau Sophie ran, with the courage born of great fear, through the dark rooms and passages, knocking up against doors and furniture, till she came to the servants' rooms. Her dream had come true. The whole household lay asleep: a burned-down candle flickered on the table, and threw uncanny shadows on the grotesque group.

"There are murderers in the house!" screamed Frau Sophie, in a voice quivering with terror; the only answer was a heavy snore. She shook some of the sleepers, called them by name, but they only sunk back without waking up. Blows could be heard on the house door. The porter too was asleep, but the key was in his pocket; Frau Sophie got it out with great difficulty, and ran through the dark passages, down the dark stairs, and along the dark hall to open the door, while the fearful thought went with her—how if she were to meet the murderer? and an even more frightful doubt pursued her—suppose she should recognize that murderer?

At last she got to the door, found the key-hole, and opened it. A bright light burst in—there was the military patrol and the town-watchmen with their lanterns. The captain of the guard had come, and the nearest army-surgeon, all only half dressed in the first clothes they could find, with a pistol or a naked sword in their hand.

Herr Katschuka rushed up the steps straight to the door which led to Timea's room—it was locked on the inside: he put his shoulder against it and burst the lock.

Timea lay before him on the ground, covered with blood, and unconscious. The major raised her and carried her to the bed. The surgeon examined the wounds, and said none of them was dangerous, the lady had only fainted. As soon as his anxiety for his beloved one was relieved, the thirst for vengeance awoke in the major—"Where is the murderer?" "Singular," said the officer; "all the doors were locked inside—how could any one get in, and how could he get out?" Nowhere was there a suspicious mark; even the instrument of murder, the broken sword, a treasure kept by Timea herself, and generally put away in a velvet box, lay blood-stained on the ground. The official physician now arrived: "Let us examine the servants." They all lay sound asleep, and the doctor found that none of them was shamming: they were all drugged. Who could have done it?

Her mother gazed at him in silence and could not answer. She did not know. The captain opened the door of Athalie's room, and they all went in, Frau Sophie following half fainting; she knew the bed must be empty.

Athalie was in bed and asleep. Her white night-dress was buttoned up to her neck, her hair fastened into an embroidered cap, her lovely hands lay on the quilt. Face and hands were clean, and she slept.

Frau Sophie leaned stupefied against the wall when she saw Athalie. "She too has been drugged," said the doctor.

The army-surgeon came up and felt her pulse: it was calm. No muscle moved on her face, no quiver betrayed her consciousness.

She could deceive every one by her marvelous self-control; all but one—the man whose beloved she had tried to murder.

"Is she really asleep?" asked the major.

"Feel her hand," said the doctor; "it is quite cool and calm."

Athalie felt the major take hold of her hand. "But just look, doctor," said he; "if you look closely you will see under the nails of this beautiful hand—fresh blood!"

At these words Athalie's fingers suddenly clinched, and the major felt as if eagle's claws were running into his hand. She laughed aloud and threw off the bedclothes. Completely dressed, she sprung up, looked the astonished men proudly up and down, cast a triumphant glance at the major, and threw a contemptuous look at her mother.

The poor woman could not bear it, and sunk fainting to the ground.



CHAPTER XI.

THE LAST STAB.

In the archives of the Komorn Court, one of the most interesting trials is that of Athalie Brazovics. The woman's defense was masterly; she denied everything, knew how to disprove everything, and when they thought they had caught her, she managed to throw such mystery over it all, that her judges knew not where to have her. Why should she murder Timea? She was herself engaged, and had good prospects, while Timea was her benefactress, and had promised her a rich dowry.

Then, too, no traces of the murder could be found except in Timea's room. Nowhere was a bloody rag or handkerchief to be found—not even the ashes of anything which could have been burned. Who had drugged the servants could not be ascertained. The household had supped together, and among the various sweets and foreign fruits there might have been something which stupefied them. Not a drop of the suspected punch was to be found; even the glasses which had held it were all washed out when the patrol entered.

Athalie maintained that she also had taken something that evening which tasted peculiar, and that she had fallen so fast asleep that she neither heard her mother's cry nor the noises afterward, and only awoke when the major touched her hand. The one person who had found her bed empty half an hour before was her own mother, who could not give evidence against her. Her strongest point was that Timea had locked all the doors, and was found insensible. How could a murderer get in and get out again? And if there had been an attempt to murder, why should she be suspected more than the rest?

The major remained with Timea till late at night; perhaps if he left, some one might creep into the room again. They did not even know whether the assassin was man or woman. The only one who knew, Timea, did not betray it, but kept to her assertion that she could not remember anything about it; her alarm had been so great that everything had faded from her memory like a dream.

She could not accuse Athalie, and was not even confronted with her.

Timea was still crippled by her wounds, which healed slowly; but the shock to her nerves was more serious than the bodily injury, and she trembled for Athalie. Since that dreadful night she was never left alone—a doctor and a nurse watched her by turns. By day the major hardly left her side, and the magistrate often visited her in order to cross-examine her; but as soon as Athalie was mentioned. Timea was silent, and not another word could be extracted from her.

The doctor advised at last that she should hear some amusing reading aloud. Timea had left her bed, and sat up to receive visitors.

Herr Katschuka proposed to open the birthday letters which had been put aside on that eventful day. That would be as good as anything—the naive congratulations of the god-children to the miraculously saved lady, which no one had yet read. Timea's hands were still bandaged. Herr Katschuka opened the letters and read them aloud. The magistrate, too, was present. The patient's face brightened during the reading, which seemed to do her good.

"What a curious seal this is," said the major, as he took up a letter which had a golden beetle stuck on the wax.

"Very odd," said Timea; "I noticed it too."

The major opened it. After he had read the first line—"Gracious lady, there is in your room a picture of St. George"—the words stuck in his throat, his eyes rolled wildly, and while he read on, his lips turned blue, and cold sweat stood on his brow: suddenly he threw the letter from him, and rushed like a madman to the picture, burst it in with his fist, and tore it and its heavy frame from the wall. There behind it yawned the dark depths of the secret chamber.

The major dashed into the darkness, and returned in a moment with the evidence of the murder—Athalie's bloody night-dress—in his hand. Timea hid her face in horror. The magistrate picked up the letter, put it in his pocket, and took possession of the proofs.

Other things were found in this hiding-place: the box of poisons, and Athalie's diary, with the frightful confessions which threw light on her soul's dark abysses, as the phosphoric mollusks do in the coral forests of the sea. What monsters dwell there! Timea forgets her wounds; with clasped hands she implores the gentlemen, the doctor, the magistrate, and her betrothed too, to tell no one, and keep the whole thing secret. But that would be impossible; the proofs are in the hands of justice, and there is no longer hope for Athalie except in God's mercy. And Timea can no longer disregard the legal summons: as soon as she can leave her room, she must appear in court and be confronted with Athalie. This was a cruel task. Even now she would only say that she remembered nothing about the murderous attack.

The marriage with the major had to be hurried on, for Timea was to appear in court as Katschuka's wife. As soon as her health allowed, the wedding took place quite privately, without any festivity, without guests or banquet. Only the clergyman and the witnesses, the magistrate and the doctor, were present. No other visitors were admitted.

* * * * *

Human justice would not spare her the painful scene: once again she had to be brought face to face with her murderess. Athalie had no dread of this meeting, but awaited with impatience the moment when her victim would appear. If with no other weapon, she wished by her eyes to inflict one more stab on Timea's heart. But she started when the official said—"Call Emerich Katschuka's wife!"

Katschuka's wife! Already married to him! But in spite of that she showed unconcealed satisfaction when Timea entered, and Athalie saw the face paler than ever, the red line over the marble forehead, the scar from the murderous blow; this memento was from her. Her lovely bosom swelled with joy when Timea was required to swear in the name of the living God that she would answer truly, and all she said was true, and when Timea drew off her glove and raised her hand, so that the disfiguring scar of a frightful sword-cut was visible. That, too, was a wedding-present from Athalie. And Timea swore with that maimed and trembling hand that she had forgotten everything, and could not even remember whether the murderer with whom she had struggled was a man or a woman.

"Fool!" muttered Athalie between her teeth. (Did they not struggle hand to hand?) "What I dared to do, you dare not even accuse me of."

"We are not asking that," said the president. "We only ask you, Did this letter, in a child's writing, and sealed with a beetle, really come to you by post, and on the very day of the attack? Was it then sealed, and did no one know its contents?"

Timea answered all these questions calmly with Yes or No.

Then the president turned to Athalie—"Now listen, Athalie Brazovics, to the contents of this letter:—

"'GRACIOUS LADY,—There is in your room a picture of St. George on the wall. This picture covers a hiding-place, to which the entrance lies through the lumber-room. Have this hole walled up, and watch over your valuable life. Long and happy may it be.

DODI.'"

And then the president raised a cloth from the table. Under it lay the accusers of Athalie—the bloody night-dress, the box of poisons, and the diary.

Athalie uttered a scream like a mortally wounded animal, and covered her face with both hands, and when she took them away, that face was no longer pale, but fiery red. She had a narrow black ribbon round her neck; she tore it off now with her two hands, and threw it away, as if to bare the lovely neck for the headsman, or perhaps rather to utter more easily what now burst from her.

"Yes, it is true I tried to kill you, and I am only sorry I did not succeed. You have been the curse of my life, you pale-faced ghost! Through you I have incurred eternal damnation. I tried to kill you—I owed it to myself. See now, there was enough poison to send a whole wedding company into eternity; but I longed for your blood. You are not dead, but my thirst is quenched, and I can die now. But before the executioner's ax severs my head from my body, I will give your heart one more stab, from which it will never be healed, and whose torture shall disturb your sweetest embraces. I swear! hear me, oh, God! hear me, ye saints and angels, and devils! all ye in heaven and earth!—be gracious to me only so far as I speak what is true." And the raving woman sunk on her knees, and threw up her hands, calling heaven and earth to witness. "I swear! I swear that this secret—the secret of the hidden door—was only known to one person besides myself, and that one was MICHAEL TIMAR LEVETINCZY. The day after he learned this secret from me he disappeared. If any one has told this, then MICHAEL TIMAR LEVETINCZY DID NOT DIE NEXT DAY! He lives still, and you can look for your first husband's return. So help me God, it is true that Timar lives! He whom we buried in his stead was a thief who had stolen his clothes. And now live on with this stab in your heart."



CHAPTER XII.

THE PENITENT IN "MARIA-NOSTRA."

The court sentenced Athalie to death for attempted murder. The king's mercy commuted this sentence into imprisonment for life in the penitentiary of "Maria-Nostra."

Athalie still lives. Forty years have passed since then, and she must be nearly seventy years old, but her defiant spirit is unbroken; she is obstinate, silent, and unrepentant. When the other prisoners are taken to church on Sundays, she is locked into her cell, because it is feared that she might disturb the devotions of the rest. Once when she was forced to go there, she yelled out to the priest "Liar!" and spat on the altar.

At various times during this period great acts of amnesty have been passed, and on national festivals hundreds of prisoners have been liberated, but this one woman was never recommended to mercy. Those who advised her to repent in order to secure a pardon received the reply, "As soon as I am free I will kill that woman!"

She says it still; but she whom she hates has long fallen into dust, after suffering for many years from that last stab inflicted on her poor sick heart.

After the words "Timar still lives," she never could be happy again: like a cold phantom it overshadowed her joy; her husband's kisses were forever poisoned to her. And when she felt the approach of death, she had herself taken to Levetinczy, that she might not be placed in the tomb where God knows who mouldered away under Timar's name. There she sought out a quiet willow grove on the Danube shore, in the part nearest to where her father, Ali Tschorbadschi, rested at the bottom of the river: as near to the ownerless island as if some secret instinct drew her there. From her grave the island rock was visible.

No blessing rested on the wealth Timar left behind him.

The only son Timea bore to her second husband was a great spendthrift: in his hands the fabulous wealth vanished as quickly as it had grown, and Timea's grandson lives on the pension he receives from the fund bequeathed by Timar for the benefit of poor nobles. This is all that is left of his gigantic property.

On the site of his Komorn palace stands another building, and the Levetinczy tomb has been removed on account of the fortifications. Of all the former splendor and riches not a trace remains.

* * * * *

And what is passing meanwhile on the ownerless island?



CHAPTER XIII.

NOBODY.

Since Timar's disappearance from Komorn forty years had passed. I was in the alphabet-class when we schoolboys went to the funeral of the rich lord, of whom people said afterward he was perhaps not dead, only disappeared. Among the people the belief was strong that Timar lived, and would some day reappear; possibly Athalie's words had set this idea afloat—at any rate, public opinion was strongly in favor of it.

The features, too, of the lovely lady came before me, whom every Sunday I admired as she sat near the organ; her seat was the nearest in the pew to the chancel. She was so radiant with beauty and yet so gentle. I well remember the excitement when it was reported that a companion of this beautiful woman had tried to murder her in the night. I saw the condemned prisoner taken to the place of execution in the headsman's cart; it was said that she would be beheaded. She had on a gray gown with black ribbons, and sat with her back to the driver; before her was a priest holding a crucifix. The market-women overwhelmed her with abuse, and spat at her; but she gazed indifferently before her, and noticed nothing.

The people thronged round the cart; curious boys hurried in troops to see the lovely head separated from the neck. I looked on fearfully from a closed window—oh, dear, if she had looked at me by chance! An hour later the crowd returned grumbling; they were disappointed that the beautiful criminal had been respited. She had only been taken up on to the scaffold, and there informed of the pardon.

And then after that I saw that other lovely rich lady every Sunday in church; but now with a red mark across her forehead, and each year with a sadder and paler face. All sorts of stories were told of her; children heard them from their mothers, and repeated them in school.

And, finally, time swept the whole story out of people's memory.

Some years ago, an old friend of mine, a naturalist, who is celebrated as a collector of plants and insects throughout the world, described to me the singular district between Hungary and Turkey, which belongs to neither State, and is not any one's private property.

On this account it offers a veritable California to the ardent naturalist, who finds there the rarest flora and fauna. My old friend used to visit this region every year, and stay there for weeks zealously collecting specimens: he invited me to share his autumn expedition. I am somewhat of a dilettante in this line, and as I had leisure, I accompanied my friend to the Lower Danube.

He led me to the ownerless island. My learned friend had known it for five-and-twenty years past, when it was in great part a wilderness, and all the work in progress.

Apart from the reed-beds, which still surround and conceal the island, it is now a complete model farm. Surrounded by a dike, it is protected from any floods, and is intersected by canals, provided with water by a horse-power pumping-engine.

When an enthusiastic gardener gets here, he can hardly tear himself away; every inch of ground is utilized, or serves to beautify the place. The tobacco grown here has the most exquisite aroma, and, when properly treated, is a first-class product; the bee-hives look from a distance like a small town, with one-storied houses and many-shaped roofs. The rarest fowls are bred in one inclosure, and on the artificial lake swim curious foreign ducks and swans. In the rich meadows graze short-horned cows, angora goats, and llama sheep with long, soft, black hair.

It is easy to see that the owner of the island understands luxury—and yet that owner never has a farthing to call his own; no money ever enters the island. Those, however, who need the exports, know also the requirements of the islanders—such as grain, clothes, tools, etc.—and bring them for barter.

My learned friend used to bring garden seeds and eggs of rare poultry, and received in exchange curious insects and dried plants, which he sold to natural history collections and foreign museums, and made a good profit out of them, for science is not only a passion but a means of sustenance. But what surprised me most agreeably was to hear pure Hungarian spoken by the inhabitants, which is very rare in that neighborhood.

The whole colony consisted of one family, and each was called only by his Christian name. The six sons of the first settler had married women of the district, and the numbers of grandchildren and great-grandchildren already exceeded forty, but the island maintained them all. Poverty was unknown; they lived in luxury: each knew some trade, and if they had been ten times as many, their labor would have supported them. The founders of the family still superintended the work.

The male members of the family learn gardening, carpentry, coopering, preparation of tobacco, and the breeding of cattle; among them are cabinet-makers and millers; the women weave Turkish carpets, prepare honey, make cheese, and distill rose-water; and all these occupations go on so naturally that it is never necessary to give orders; each knows his duty, fulfills it untold, and takes pleasure in its completion. The dwellings of the ever-growing families already form a whole street; each little house is built by division of labor, and the elders help the newly married. Strangers who visit the island are received by the nominal head of the family, whom the others call father. Strangers know him under the name of Deodatus. He is a well-built man of over forty, with handsome features; he it is who arranges the terms of barter and shows visitors over the colony.

When we arrived Deodatus received us with the kind cordiality one exhibits to old friends; the naturalist was a regular annual visitor. The subjects of our discourse were pomology, horticulture, botany, entomology, in all of which Deodatus seemed to be well versed; in everything pertaining to gardens and cattle-breeding he had reached a high standard. I could not conceal my surprise, and asked him where he had learned it.

"From our father," answered Deodatus, with a sigh.

"Who is that?"

"You will see him when we assemble in the evening."

It was the time of apples. All the young people and women were busy gathering the pretty golden-yellow, brown, and crimson fruit. It lay in pyramids on the green turf, like cannon-balls inside a fortress. Joyous cries resounded through the island; when the sun set, a bell gave the signal for the holiday feast. At this signal every one hastened to fill baskets with the remaining fruit, which was then carried into the apple-store.

We also, with Deodatus, bent our steps to the place whence the sound came. The bell was on the top of a small wooden building, which, as well as its little tower, was overgrown with ivy; but one could guess by the fantastic forms of the columns under the veranda, that the architect had carved many a thoughtful dream and wish into his work.

Before this house was a circular space with tables and chairs; there every one met when work was over.

"Here dwell our old people," whispered Deodatus.

They soon came out—a fine pair. The wife might be sixty, the man eighty. The great-grandfather's face had that characteristic look which makes you remember a good picture you have once seen, even if forty years ago. I was quite startled: his head was nearly bald, but the remaining hair and his beard were hardly gray, and on his firm, calm features age seemed to have no hold. A temperate and regular life and a cheerful disposition preserve the features unspoiled.

The great-grandmother was still an attractive woman. Her once golden hair certainly was flecked with silver, but her eyes were still girlish, and her cheeks blushed like a bride's when her husband kissed her.

The faces of both beamed with happiness when they saw their whole large family round them, and they called each to them by name and kissed them. This was their joy, their devotion, their song of praise.

Deodatus, the eldest son, was the last to embrace his parents, and then our turn came. They shook hands with us too, and invited us to supper. The old lady still kept the care of the cooking department in her own hands, and she it was who provided for all the family, though each had full liberty to sit at a separate table with any others he cared for, and take his meal with them; but her husband sat down at a table with us and Deodatus. A tiny golden-haired angel of a child called Noemi climbed on his lap, and had permission to listen, wondering, to our wise talk.

When my name was mentioned to the old man he looked long at me, and a visible color rose in his cheeks. My learned friend asked him whether he had ever heard my name before; the old man was silent. Deodatus hastened to say that his father had for forty years read nothing of what was passing in the world: his whole study was books of farming and gardening. I therefore undertook, as people do who have made a profession of imparting what they know, to bring my wares to market, and I told him what was going on in the world. I informed him that Hungary was now united to Austria by the word "and."

He blew a cloud from his pipe: the smoke said, "My island has nothing to do with that."

I told him of our heavy taxes: the smoke replied, "We have no taxes here."

I described to him the fearful wars which had been waged in our kingdom and all over the world: the smoke answered, "We wage war here with no one."

There was at that time a great panic on the exchanges, the oldest firms failed; and this too I explained to him. Only his pipe's steady puffs seemed to say, "Thank God, we have no money here."

I described to him the bitter struggle of parties, the strife between religion, nationalities, and ambition. The old man shook the ashes out of his pipe—"We have neither bishops, electors, nor ministers here."

And finally, I proved to him how great our country would be when everything we hoped for was fulfilled.

Little Noemi meanwhile had fallen asleep on her great-grandfather's lap, and had to be carried to bed. This was more important than what I was talking of; the sleeping child passed into the great-grandmother's arms. When the old lady left us, the old man asked me, "Where were you born?" I told him.

"What is your profession?"

I told him I was a romance-writer.

"What is that?"

"One who can guess by the end of a story what the whole story was from the beginning."

"Well, then, guess my story," said he, clasping my hand. "There was once a man who left a world in which he was admired, and created a second world in which he was loved."

"May I venture to ask your name?"

The old man seemed to grow a head taller; then raising his trembling hands, he laid them on my head. And at this moment it seemed to me as if once, long, long ago, that hand had rested on my head when childish curls covered it, and as if I had seen that noble face before.

To my question he replied, "My name is NOBODY." With that he turned away and spoke no more, but went into his house, and did not appear again during our stay on the island.

This is the present condition of the ownerless island. The privilege granted by two kingdoms, that this speck of ground should be excluded from any map, will last for fifty years more.

Fifty years! Who knows what will have become of the world by then?

THE END.



ASK FOR AMERICAN SERIES No. 335.

A Really Great American Novel.

A TALE OF THE TOWN: OR, PHILIP HENSON, M. D.

BY GEORGE HASTINGS.

PAPER, 25 CENTS.

PRESS CRITICISMS:

"We do not purpose to rob the story of the zest which remains for the reading by telling here all the ingenious but reasonable complications which beset this man, how love withers under the unseen blight, how rest forsakes him, how success becomes a satire, and how the impervious will sinks into impotency when beset by intangible and inscrutable forces. It is enough to point out that in this book the author has planted his characters upon an elemental truth, and something of the efficacy of that truth gives a strange fascination and power to the story."—New York World.

"It is a cleverly wrought and highly interesting novel, constructed upon somewhat unconventional lines. There is just enough medical science and metaphysics in it to give it spice; there are two murders, a trial and conviction of an innocent man on circumstantial evidence, a series of confidential domestic scenes, and a dash of hypnotism—surely enough to capture the fancy of the inveterate or occasional novel reader. . . . It is a curious but entrancing novel, and once caught in its seductive meshes the reader will find it hard to escape. Incidentally some of Inspector Byrnes' peculiar detective methods are severely satirized."—The Brooklyn Standard-Union.

"It is clever in its way, but trash."—The Buffalo Courier.

"It places the author in the foremost rank of American writers of fiction. . . . It will live—a surpassingly clever delineation of a strange phase of human character."—The London Times.

"Philip Henson, M. D., by George Hastings, is indifferent and mediocre."—The New York Daily Continent.

"Philip Henson, M. D., is more than clever—it is masterly. In exciting and absorbing interest this book excels the novels of Gaboriau and De Boisgobey, and the sketches and characters are capitally drawn. For example, Inspector Byrnes and his methods have never before been so accurately described."—The Spirit of the Times.

"A story quite out of the ordinary."—The Kansas City Journal.

"Very dramatically told, and a well-conceived and thrilling narrative."—America.

"The plot of Philip Henson, M. D., is remarkably strong and tragic. Mr. Hastings is a graphic writer."—The Sacramento Record-Union.



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Weaker than a Woman. Charlotte M. Braeme. Wedding Ring, The. Robert Buchanan. Wee Wifie. Rosa N. Carey. We Two. Edna Lyall. What Gold Can Not Buy. Mrs. Alexander. When a Man's Single. J. M. Barrie. White Company, The. A. Conan Doyle. Wicked Girl, A. Mary Cecil Hay. Widow Bedott Papers. F. M. Whitcher. Wife In Name Only. Charlotte M. Braeme. Will. Georges Ohnet. Window in Thrums, A. J. M. Barrie. Witch's Head, The. H. Rider Haggard. Woman's Face, A. F. Warden. Woman's Heart, A. Mrs. Alexander. Woman's War, A. Charlotte M. Braeme. Won by Waiting. Edna Lyall. Wonderful Adventures of Phra the Edwin Lester Arnold. Phoenician, The. Wooed and Married. Rosa N. Carey. Wooing O't, The. Mrs. Alexander. World's Desire, The. H. Rider Haggard and Andrew Lang. World, the Flesh, and the Devil, The. Mrs. M. E. Braddon. Wormwood. Marie Corelli.

Young Mr. Ainslie's Courtship. F. C. Phillips.



FIFTY CENT ISSUES.

Ardath. Marie Corelli. Disputed Inheritance, A. Timayenis. Englishman in Paris, An. Robert Elsmere. Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Romance of Two Worlds, A. Marie Corelli. Spurgeon's Gold. Rev. E. H. Swem. Thelma. Marie Corelli.



Latest Issues American Series.

25-Cent Edition.

Andree de Taverney. Alexander Dumas. Discarded Daughter, The. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Countess de Charny, The. Alexander Dumas. Retribution. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Six Years Later. Alexander Dumas. Queen's Necklace, The. Alexander Dumas. Fatal Marriage, The. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Memoirs of a Physician. Alexander Dumas. Joseph Balsamo. Alexander Dumas. Self-Raised. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Ishmael. Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth. Russian Gypsy, The. Alexander Dumas. Old Mam'selle's Secret, The. E. Marlitt.



ALEXANDER DUMAS' WORKS CONTAINED IN "AMERICAN SERIES:"

Camille. Edmond Dantes. Count of Monte-Cristo. The Three Guardsmen. Twenty Years After. Vicomte de Bragelonne. Louise de la Valliere. The Man in the Iron Mask. The Son of Porthos. The Black Tulip. The Russian Gypsy. Joseph Balsamo. Memoirs of a Physician. The Queen's Necklace. Six Years Later. Countess de Charny. Andree de Taverney. The Chevalier de Maison Rouge.



MAXWELL GRAY'S WORKS CONTAINED IN "AMERICAN SERIES."

No. 239—In the Heart of the Storm. No. 261—Silence of Dean Maitland, The.



MARIE CORELLI'S WORKS CONTAINED IN "AMERICAN SERIES."

No. 6—Ardath—50c number. No. 73—Romance of Two Worlds, A—50c number. No. 4—Thelma—50c number.

* * * * *

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CUSHING'S MANUAL.

CONTAINING RULES of PROCEEDING and DEBATE OF DELIBERATIVE ASSEMBLIES.

A Complete Guide for Instruction and Reference in all Matters pertaining to the Management of Public Meetings according to Parliamentary Usages.

BY REVISED BY LUTHER S. CUSHING. FRANCES P. SULLIVAN.

The contents embrace the following subjects:

Adding of Propositions. Adjournment. Amendment. Apology. Assembly, Deliberative. Assembling. Blanks, filling of. Chairman, preliminary election of. Committees. Committee of the Whole. Commitment. Communications. Consent of the assembly. Contested Elections. Credentials. Debate. Decorum, Breaches of. Disorderly Conduct. Disorderly Words. Division. Elections and Returns. Expulsion. Floor. Forms of Proceeding. Incidental Questions. Introduction of Business. Journal. Judgment of an aggregate body. Lie on the Table. List of members. Main Question. Majority. Members. Membership. Motion. Naming a member. Officers. Order of a deliberative assembly. Order of business. Order, rules of. Order, call to. Orders of the Day. Organization. Papers and Documents. Parliamentary Law. Parliamentary Rules. Petitions. Postponement. Power of assembly to eject strangers. Preamble. Precedence. President. Presiding Officer. Previous Question. Privileged Questions. Proceedings, how set in motion. Punishment. Quarrel between members. Question. Quorum. Reading of Papers. Reception. Recommitment. Reconsideration. Recording Officer. Recurrence of Business. Reports of Committees. Reprimand. Resolution. Returns. Roll. Rules. Secondary Questions. Seconding of motions. Secretary. Separation of propositions. Speaking. Speaking member. Speech, reading of, by member. Subsidiary Questions. Suspension of a rule. Transposition of proposition. Vice-President. Voting. Will of assembly. Withdrawal of motion. Yeas and Nays.

In addition to the above this volume contains

THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES AND THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

208 Pages. Bound in paper, 25 cents; bound in cloth, gilt back, 50 cents.

Sent by mail receipt of price. One- and two-cent stamps taken.



Standard Recitations by Best Authors

A CHOICE COLLECTION OF BEAUTIFUL COMPOSITIONS, CAREFULLY COMPILED FOR School, Lyceum, Parlor, and other Entertainments, BY FRANCES P. SULLIVAN.

CONTENTS OF NO. 22.

PAGE Shamus O'Brien, The Bold Boy of Glingall. Samuel Lover. 3 The Soldiers' Reward. J. W. Donovan. 7 The Kitten of the Regiment. 9 Perils of a Teacher. J. W. Donovan. 10 A Climb at Rouen. M. Betham Edwards. 11 Catching the Colt. 12 Something for Strikers. 13 Harmony. 13 By the Wayside. E. Doherty. 14 The Unwelcomed Baby. 15 Running Before It. William Constable. 16 "Warned." Crape Myrtle. 17 The Old Wife's Kiss. 17 The Old Office-Desk. Henry J. Shellman. 19 Chickens Come Home to Roost. Earnest M'Gaffey. 19 The Blacksmith of Ragenbach. 20 The Old Mill. H. W. Field. 21 One at a Time. 22 The Hot Axle. T. DeWitt Talmage. 22 Ellsworth's Avengers. Tripp. 23 The Origin of Whiskey. H. Burgess. 24 The Two Words. J. E. Dinkenga. 25 Listeners. M. K. D. 25 The Delinquent Subscriber. Margaret Andrews Oldham. 26 "Peace, be Still." Violet. 27 A Short Debate on Rum. "Th' Poet o' Ante-Bar" 28 The Participants in the Boston Massacre. John Hancock. 28 Dandie. M. F. Bradley. 29 The Nameless Guest. James Clarence Harvey. 30 Slug Number Eleven. 30 A Famous Fight. David Graham Adee. 32 More Cruel Than War. 33 The Fall of the Alamo. Mrs. Barr. 34 A New Gospel. Carlotta Perry. 35 Making the Round. Mrs. M. L. Rayne. 36 The Beautiful. 37 Onatoga's Sacrifice. John Dimitry. 38 Joe Sieg. Alexander Anderson. 39 Education. C. Phillips. 41 Ingratitude: Or Old Sport and His Master. Fred Williams. 41 Old Uncle Jake. 43 On the Rappahannock. 44 The Better Land. 45 Charity. 45 St. Michael the Weigher. 46 The Orphan's New Year. O. H. 46 The Inch Cape Bell. 47 The Old Minstrel. 47