of the fir forest yonder. It was a pleasanter
scene than that ghostly parlour, and Magda
felt an irrepressible longing to go forth
into the moonlight; to stand, but for five
minutes, on that bridge under the clear vault
of Heaven, to be so much nearer to
Albrecht for a little space, before going to
her bed—for in this room she felt it would
make her too nervous to sit up any longer.
She touched a hand-bell, and Hanne
enterered.

"Can I" . . . faltered the young Gräfin,
annoyed to find her summons thus
answered. ... "Can I step out upon the
bridge for a few minutes? Can the castle-gate
be unlocked?"

For a second it seemed as if Hanne
hesitated.

"The gracious lady's commands shall
be obeyed."

She left the room, and a minute or two
afterwards Bettine brought in the queer old
hat and spencer.

"I want nothing," she said; but she
threw the spencer over her arm; "it is so
warm. Come with me, Bettine;" and,
passing through the unlocked door of the
tower, they traversed the long passage, and
descended to the hall. The gate had been
unbarred by the old servants, who stood
one on each side of it, rigidly erect, as their
young mistress passed out.

It was as though a great weight were
lifted from her head when she felt the
warm night wind blow upon her face, and
the myriad stars of Heaven above her,
instead of the low-beamed roof-and
worm-eaten panels of that oppressive room. She
stood, flooded in moonlight, upon the
bridge, and, leaning over the parapet,
looked down at the stars in the water, and
up at the schloss, on which the moon fell
slantways. She could examine its exterior
now more leisurely. There was her tower,
with its low parlour window below, and
the- wide-mouthed oriel above, casting a
sharp projection of black shade upon the
building. Her eye wandered over the
many other windows of the schloss, no two
of the same size, or at the same level, but
set irregularly over the face of the building
at uncertain intervals.

One of them, and one alone, stood open;
and even now, as Magda looked, a strange
thing came to pass.

The fancy seized her that she caught
sight of a white face at this window, staring
down at her with eyes that glittered in the
moonlight.

It was a delusion, no doubt. There was
a thin white curtain at this window, which
the night breeze fluttered now and again.
And, more than this, Hanne's hard grey-haired
head appeared, unmistakeable in the
clear moonlight, a moment later. To
either of these causes it was possible to
refer the strange impression produced on
Magda; and then the excited state of her
nerves rendered her singularly susceptible
to such a fancy as this.

While she argued thus with herself, the
spencer, which had been gradually slipping
from her arm, fell on the parapet, its black
arms flying in the breeze, and dropped
into the water with a heavy splash.
Bettine gave a little cry, but it was echoed by
one louder and shriller, and this certainly
came from the open window.

"What was that?" said Magda,
startled.

Bettine made as though she heard not,
but began calling lustily to one of the men
to bring a boat-hook, and fish up the
gracious lady's mantle.

"Did you not hear a very peculiar sharp
cry?" asked Magda, again. "Who could
it be?—not Hanne?"

"Yes, begging the Frau Gräfin's pardon
—that is the Hanne's room ... no doubt
it was the Hanne's voice ... it is somewhat
shrill, by times."

The face was turned away, and it seemed
to Magda that she spoke with a certain
hesitation; but these were her words, and
she added nothing to them, busying herself
thenceforward with the recovery of the
garment, which had been carried by the
current half way round the moat. Magda
felt by no means satisfied or reassured.
There, at the window, was the stern grey
face of Hanne, watching her, she knew; it
seemed difficult to believe that so self-contained
a woman should have yielded to the
weakness of screaming! The young gräfin
turned away with a shudder, she scarce
knew why, and walked slowly to the
further end of the bridge. And here her eye
was attracted by something white on the
furthest stone of the parapet, upon which
the moonlight fell. She stooped; it was a
piece of paper, on which some pebbles had
been placed, to prevent the wind's carrying
it away. She took it up, and read easily,
in the clear moonlight, these words:

"Be of good courage, for my sake.
Remember, I am near you. "A."

There came a rush of blood to the poor
chilled heart; it was as though new life