men looked grave—grave and rather sad,
it seemed to Magda. The woman looked
stern, keen, and resolute. In spite of her
years, she was evidently still strong, and
unusually active. Her eye was quick and
bright; her walk, and all her movements,
betokened decision and promptitude. She
was dressed in black stuff, and her grey
hair was put back under a black cap; no
speck of white relieved the general
mournfulness of her aspect.

Magda tried to smile, and say something
gracious to the old woman. She was
perfectly respectful in her reply, but as hard
as nails; the swift eye was raised, and the
tight-shut lips unclosed, just so much as
was absolutely necessary, no more; then
she pounced upon shawls and cloaks as an
eagle might swoop upon his prey, and led
Magda up-stairs, without further ado, the
two old men following with the valises. The
geography of the schloss was less intricate
than that of most old buildings. At the
top of the stairs ran a long passage, which
turned and twisted, it is true, and from
which sundry other flights of stairs
debouched, to the bewilderment of a stranger
who was not closely observant. But at the
end of this passage was a door, which the
woman unlocked from a bunch of keys
hanging at her side; and after this all was
simple enough. A short flight of steps led
into one of the many towers which Magda
had seen from the bridge. This tower
—that portion of it, at least, into which
Magda was now taken—contained two
good-sized rooms, one over the other, a
winding stair communicating. The lower
room was oak panelled, and in it were an
old piano, a harp, a few direfully bad prints
of the House of Hapsburg, in the beginning
of this century, and one of the Retreat
from Moscow. Klopstock's Messiah and
an odd volume or two of Lessing were upon
one table, together with a very faded
work-basket, and an old Spa-box, with the Allée
des Soupirs (in which the trees looked like
tufts of blue-green feathers upon hairpins),
much defaced by time, upon its lid. Upon
the other table a cloth, with preparations
for supper, was laid. It was the only thing
in that strange room, where all seemed to
have remained forgotten and untouched for
the last twenty years, that spoke a living
language—the same, unchanged by fashion,
wherein our fathers made ready to eat.
A substantial pie, some slices of raw ham,
and a carp from the moat stewed in red
Avine, would, from all time, have seemed
it German supper. But Magda
felt in no wise disposed to do it justice.
She asked to see her bedroom, and the old
woman led her up-stairs to the corresponding
chamber above, the only difference in
the shape of the two being that this latter
had a wide oriel window overhanging
the moat—an excrescence supported by a
corbel, like the "Parson's Window" at
Nuremberg.

The room was hung with old Flemish
tapestry; a quaint stove of green delf
towered up in one corner, a dressing-table
and tarnished mirror in another. The bed,
which was like a black box with the lid
turned back, disclosing a yellow eiderdown
quilt, discouraged, rather than
invited, the weary to lie down and take their
rest. It was raised on a single step, a daÏs,
and stood at right-angles between the door
and window. The back, which I have
compared to the lid of the box, was of solid
black oak, carved with grotesque figures;
there were curtains at the head, and none
at the feet; but a board rose up, like the
stone at the foot of a grave, with the
date "1600" carved thereon. Upon a nail
at the head of the bed hung a crown of
immortelles, and the name "Louise,"
fashioned out of the same flowers, after the
German manner. The flowers were brown
with age, and many of them had dropped;
similar chaplets, blown and beaten with
the rain and wind, Magda had seen on
every headstone in the graveyard where
her mother lay.

"Whose name is that? Who was
Louise?" she asked of a second old
woman, less active than the first, who
now appeared, proffering her services as
kammerjungfer, while the other left the
room.

"It was the gracious young lady,"
replied the old servant, dropping her voice
till it ended in a low sigh. Magda felt
more drawn towards her by that touch of
feminine softness, less afraid to question
her than her falcon-eyed predecessor.

"And when did she die?" continued
Magda.

"Twenty-one years ago," whispered the
old woman, glancing round. "But, may
it please the gracious lady, it is forbidden
to speak on the subject."

"Why?" said Magda, grown almost bold
by her curiosity, and by her confidence in
the kindly wrinkled face before her. "Who
forbids you?"

"It is forbidden," she repeated. "The
gracious lady does not know . . ." She
glanced round once more, and shook her