he spoke he advanced a step nearer her and
took the hand that hung listless by her side;
the other held the flowers in which she was now
burying her blushing face. She knew what was
coming; she dreaded it, she longed for it, she
seemed rooted to the spot as by some magic
spell. She neither spoke nor stirred.

"Beatrice, I love you. I wished to work
to make a position for myself in which my
wife could live at ease as she had been used
to do at home. I did not feel it honourable
to take a girl from a good home to offer her
a less comfortable one. You led me on just
now, or it would not have been till I had
house and range to call my own that I would
have stept to you and said, Beatrice, I love
you. Will you be my wife? But as it is,
it is; and if you can give me only a hope,
Beatrice—-"

She did not answer him one tiny word. Her
head was only buried deeper in the flowers, but
she did not resist him either when he drew her
closer to him, when he held her in his strong
embrace, and pressed a kiss on her bowed head.

"Say one word to me, Beatrice," he pleaded;
"one word."

"I love you, Paul," she stammered. And
then hastily broke away from him, and ran
into the house.

A week after this the young man left for the
town, where he stayed three months, and at
the end of that time, was appointed to a station
twelve miles distant from his love. Though it
divided them, it made him glad, for would it
not soon bring them together? It was not an
advancement he could marry on, but it was the
intermediate step to such promotion, and he
was pleased to have got so far. Before departing
for his new home, he went once more to
say farewell to his old one, and to take away his
few possessions. All was as he had left it, except
Beatrice, and she seemed changed, how he
could hardly say.

There was a shyness and distance about her
manner towards himself that pained him; she
had more the behaviour of a lady than those
simple girlish ways he had delighted in before.
When he dropped any hint of this to her father
he pooh-poohed it. " Why, Paul," he said, " the
maid must change into the woman, and thought
of approaching matrimony sobers every girl.
These are cobwebs of the brain, boy, shake
them off, they are not worthy of her or of you."

Paul left the old Forsthaus with an anxious
heart. But youth is so trustful and love so
desirous to believe what it hopes, that the
cheerful, friendly letters he received fortnightly
from kind old Emil Bergen, full of news and
messages from Beatrice, dispelled his doubts
and fears. The young man worked on as steadily
as ever.

But one August morning he received two
letters. One was written in the stiff handwriting
of his old master, the other sealed with the huge
governmental seal. He hastily broke the latter
for he thought it might directly concern the
attainment of his aim in life; nor was he
mistaken. The writing offered to Paul Smitt,
Förster, the Forsterei of Oderbruck on the
Brockenfeld, with a good income and certain
privileges in consideration of its lonely position.

Can I take Beatrice there? was his first
thought. Will it be right thus to bury her
alive. For himself he had no thought;
whereever she was there was life enough for him.

While thus considering, he opened the other
letter. His eyes flew over the pages, and as he
read his face grew hard and sad. When he
had come to the end he crunched the letter
wildly in his hand, threw it far from him, and
tottering into a chair burst into tears.

The letter that had changed the whole current
of Paul's being ran thus:

"MY WELL LOVED PAUL,—How shall I find
words in which to clothe my grief—our grief—
for it is yours as well as mine, my boy? Beatrice
is ours no longer; yesterday she left her father's                                             home to follow the young squire of V—. All                                                            I can learn is that the gentleman has met her
much lately in the wood, that they went away                                                       together, and were last seen near G—. I                                                           shall not attempt to follow her, to try and
bring her back. She can be my daughter no
longer. To deceive her doting old father and
affianced husband; no, Paul, to forgive her,
is more than I can do. But you, my boy, you
must remain my son, as such I have always
loved you. Come to see me as soon as you
can leave; my eyes long to behold you, my
ears to hear your voice. We will grieve
together for our darling. Come to your
affectionate fosterfather,
" EMIL BERGEN."

Paul accepted the governmental offer. What
place could be too lonely for him now? What
place lonely enough wherein to bury himself
and his grief? There was a quiet meeting of
the two men, struck by the same blow, the elder
brought by it nearer to the grave, the younger
having formed through it a grave for the full
pride of life and youth. There was not much
more for Paul to hear. The father knew little
of his daughter, and had not sought to learn
more.

"Paul, should she ever fall in your way,
deal kindly to her, for her father's sake if you
can no longer do so for her own. Will you,
Paul?"

"I will," he replied, firmly. " And now farewell,
my good father; may we soon meet again,
happy we can never be, but perchance we may
become more resigned."

"Amen," said the old man, but he shook his
head doubtfully.

From that day forth Paul Smitt of Oderbruck
had lived in the lonely Forsthaus, and since
that day there had passed ten long, weary,
uneventful years. He did his work conscientiously
and well, was respected and feared by his
servants and dependants, but during all those
years no one had come any nearer to the lonely
man. If any one were ill or in trouble, he was
kind and sympathetic, inexhaustible in charity
and well doing, but all thanks, all expression