to the lady to whom they are offered, and, in
your own interest, I warn you not to continue
them.
                               MARGARET HAUSMANN.

He saw that no support was to be hoped for
from the old lady; but, not deterred by this
severe little missive, resolved to see whether the
younger woman were not more assailable, and
could not be enlisted in his favour. Since the
strange scene which he had been a witness to in
the garden, he had returned with some degree of
bitterness, and scorn of himself for his romance,
to his first misgivings about the mysterious
woman who had so bewitched him. The
certainty of her light conduct had at last cut
itself with a sharp pang into his heart; but with
that certainty had slid in a much more positive
hope than he had ever before ventured to indulge,
and one that, as we have seen, led him to more
open measures of pursuit than he had yet
hazarded.

For two days he watched incessantly for an
occasion of speaking to her, but in vain. The
third morning brought him better luck, and he
saw Miss Hausmann, at last, leave the house
alone; here was the opportunity ready made for
him. He took his hat and followed her at
some distance; she went along the Bayswater-
road, until she came to the top of Oxford-street,
and prepared to cross over into Hyde Park.
Edward Saville was close behind her now, and
had made up his mind, as soon as they were in
the Park, to address her. There was a tremendous
double line of carts, cabs, and omnibuses,
and they were obliged to wait some little time
in order to let them pass. At last there was a
momentary opening, and Miss Hausmann went
across. She had not, however, perceived an
omnibus which was coming down full tilt upon
her. "Go back! go back!" shouted the
terrified people from both sides, who saw her
danger. Bewildered by their cries, instead of
going rapidly either back or forward, she
hesitated fatally, and the next instant was
knocked down by the pole of the omnibus. The
driver, who was looking another way, was quite
unable to pull up his horses in time, and she
must infallibly have been run over had not
Edward Saville, rushing forward, seized the
bridle and violently backed the horses at his own
peril, saving her from the death that, to the
alarmed bystanders, had appeared all but inevitable.
As it was, she was more frightened
than hurt, but her ankle was badly sprained.
He carried her in his arms to the first shop at
hand, where she had a glass of water, and sat
for a few moments to recover the shock. He
then called a cab for her, and saw her to her
own house. When they arrived, her foot was
much worse; it gave her great pain, and she
could not put it to the ground. Edward Saville
explained what had happened to the old man,
who went to fetch his mistress. Great was her
tribulation at hearing of her daughter's accident,
but great was also her gratitude. Edward,
assisted by the old man, carried Miss Hausmann
into the drawing-room and placed her on a sofa,
after which, laden with the heartfelt thanks
of both mother and daughter, he withdrew.
About two hours later he received a message
from the next house; Madame Hausmann wished
to speak to him, if he would be kind enough to
come and see her. She met him in the hall,
and, drawing him into the little sitting-room,
closed the door.

"You have been kind to my child, and done
me a service I can never repay. You are rich,
I am poor. I can never serve you but in one
way only, and that is by telling you what I had
thought never to tell to any soul alive. You
must come here no more," she said; "forget
Wanda—she is an ill-fated creature, who can
but darken your young days. I have tried to
warn you, but youth is mad, and won't be
warned. Now listen, and judge what hope
there is for you." She made him sit down, and
then spoke as follows:

"We are from Bohemia. My husband was a
doctor in the small town of Altheim, and we
lived there till he died. When I lost him, we
left the town (I and my three children), and
came to live again in the country, not far from
the little village of Wallendorf, where I was
born, and had passed all my childhood.

"We lived in a lonely cottage in a very wild
spot, on the borders of a forest. Elizabeth,
Francis, little William, and myself. Wanda is
not my daughter, she is my foster-child only.
We were tenants of Count Berchtold, a rich
powerful lord, who had property all over the
country. About four miles from us he had a
castle, and lands, and great woods, that stretched
as far as our cottage. This castle was always
empty; he would come there for a day or two
once in three or four years, for the shooting;
but it was never inhabited except at such times.
When he was in the country he lived himself in
another great castle which he had, about fourteen
miles from our part of the world, and about
seven from the town where my husband was
established.

"The count was a proud man with a heart of
stone; the only thing he cared about was the
greatness of his name, and the despair of his life
was, that though he had been married many
years, there was no heir. The countess was
barren, and his great name would die out, and
the property would all go to a female cousin,
and so pass away from the family. He hated
his wife, poor lady, and never went near her.
There was no insult he did not heap upon her
for this sad misfortune of her childlessness.

"My husband knew her; he had been sent for
once in a hurry to attend her; she had had a
fall, and broken her arm. They did say, that in
one of his mad rages the count had thrown her
against a marble table, and that so her arm had
got broken. I don't know how that may be;
he had so ill a name, and was so feared and
hated, that the worst case was always made out
against him: there was no need of that; he was
bad enough, anyhow. What perhaps gave a
colour of truth to the story was, that as soon as