whilst waiting to see my doctor, at whose
house I had called. It has often struck me,
when reading your writings, that the tendency
of your mind is to hold up to derision those
of the higher classes. I refer you for the
present to the Ignoble Nobleman as written
by you and published this month. Now we
find recorded in Scripture the world described
as hateful and hating one another, and I
would call your attention to the third chapter
of Paul's Epistle to Titus; read the first six
verses, and see what believers in—— the son
of the living—— are called upon to do, and
then judge yourself, that ye be not judged.
I would invoke you unto a kinder spirit,
and be ye a doer of the word and not a
hearer only.

                      "l am, Sir,
                         "Your very obedt.,
                                      "A Commoner."

FROZEN AND THAWED.

Good Doctor Wildenhahn, a man of lowly
birth, whose stories are much liked in
Germany by lowly readers—and by high-born
readers, too—has written certain village tales
of the Hartz Mountains. Of one of them the
heroine is a poor little lace-worker, Dorel.
I should like to tell again in fewer words,
what I have read of Dorel.

She worked lace into elegant patterns, and
so did many of the girls, her neighbours, on a
quaint-looking parti-coloured pillow: shifting
her bobbins busily with nimble fingers, and
bending over them a pair of the kindliest
black eyes. She was ill-paid for her labour.
Indeed, many of the maids in her village—
who took less heed of their earnings—fainted
sometimes through hunger as they sat at
work. Dorel was the chief help of her
widowed mother and of five younger brothers
and sisters. She was only eighteen; and,
though she went barefooted, she looked like
a little princess in her peasant dress, which
was made up of three garments—a blue
chemise, a red frock, and a neckerchief white
as a blossom.

Gottlieb, her betrothed lover, was a rough
peasant of the village; a joiner by trade, who
inherited from his deceased father a house
and little field, and was proud of being a
free-holder. The village in which they lived is a
very poor one, high up among the Hartz
Mountains.

Gottlieb's nightly visits had become
half-weekly, or weekly, and his conduct when he
came had grown to be uncivil. Dorel's
mother had been courted differently; and
she was resolved to understand the suitor's
conduct. Dorel pleaded for him that he had
always been good to her, and that she would
rather bear with him patiently until the evil
humour passed away. Her mother thought
a regret before marriage better than a repentance
after, and resolved to speak to Gottlieb;
only she promised that she would speak
privately, and not in Dorel's presence.

One evening, the little pewter lamp was
put upon the table, whence it shed a dim and
yellow light on Dorel's lace pillow. The
mother kindled a fire in the oven, and two
of the elder children peeled potatoes with the
handles of their pewter spoons. The little
ones sat on a bench by the stove, playing  a
game together with some pebbles. The door
opened, and in came a stout young lad of
four-and-twenty, who sat down in an
unoccupied warm corner, after he had said good
evening in an ill-tempered way.

"Good evening, Gottlieb! Welcome," said
the mother. Poor little Dorel looked very
red, and made the bobbins fly extremely fast.
Gottlieb was in a boorish sullen mood; the
old woman was suppressing indignation,
coughing and looking at Dorel; who, with an
anxious loving heart, was labouring away
over the lace pillow. There was a miserable
silence.

The potatoes were peeled, the fire leaped
in the oven. The mother pushed the great
pot into it, coughed again, and discharged
herself of an extremely noticeable sigh.
Gottlieb sat like a log. After another quarter of
an hour, the good woman's patience was
exhausted: "Now, Gottlieb," she said, in a
half-angry tone, "I vow you sit there as if you
had no tongue."

"Ay, ay," said the youth. "As you may
take it."

"Indeed," said the mother sharply, "I
don't know how I am to take it! It would
be well if you would open your mouth, and
let us know what taking you are in."

"Hush, mother, dear!" whispered Dorel
beseechingly. "Gottlieb is surely tired after
his work. Let him but rest a bit. The soup
is ready by this time, and I will get the table
ready for the soup."

So Dorel stood up; and, having put her
bobbins carefully in order, threw a white
cloth over the cushion, and placed it on a
corner of the bench near the window. Then
she spread a napkin upon the table and
laid pewter spoons for eight. Then she
took from the cupboard a great loaf of
black bread, and cut it into tidy little pieces
over the large earthen bowl; and, when the
bowl was filled, strewed salt and pepper over
it. "Now, mother, you can pour out." The
mother lifted the great pot out of the oven,
mashed the cooked potatoes to a broth in it,
and then poured the yellow soup over the
bread. The bits of bread at first danced about
like little fishes, but, beginning soon to swell,
they filled the bowl with a mass so dense that
Dorel had some trouble to stir and mix it
with her spoon. The five other children then
took their places; the elder ones near their
mother, and the younger ones near Dorel;
but Gottlieb did not stir.

"Now, Gottlieb," said the old woman,  "will
you not join us?"