forward was easy and the sky was light, and to
go on was to remain quietly together.

The young people went on with their hearts
open to each other, impressible enough, and
quite as serious as they were happy.  One or
two fallen trees were the only difficulties in the
way by which they reached a third and larger
open space.  Passing by a carved stone
fountain, full of a dry growth of moss, they
saw a decayed house with its outbuildings.
The house was of gray stone, and seemed to
lean against a slender round tower, bound
with ivy to the topmost turret.  There
was a terrace before it with grass, and there
were vestiges of flower-beds.  Over the arched
entrance-gate were set up three pairs of decaying
antlers; into the wall at the side of it
was fixed a rusty chain with an iron collar, to
which there was yet attached the skeleton
of a dog.  All was silent, for the twilight
had set in; the birds were in their nests;
and in the old house it was evident that no
man lived.  The door stood half open.  The
two entered.

Though uninhabited, the house was not
unfurnished.  Rusty guns and hunting knives
hung on the walls, mouldering benches were
in the outer hall; an inner room, of which
the window was darkened by the foliage of
an untrimmed vine, had two soiled cups upon
its table and a rusty coffee-pot.  There lay
on a chair near it, a half-knitted stocking.
Out of this room, a door led into a smaller
chamber, full of hunters' tools, in which
there was a bed still tumbled; and there was,
among all the man's furniture in that room,
a chest containing a woman's clothing
and the clothes of little children.  In the
recess of the window a silver cup was set up,
as in the place of honour; and on a table by the
bedside lay an old hunter's cap, a hymn-book,
and a Bible.  "The books," said the young
Englishman, "will tell us who lived in this
house."  Opening the Bible, he read to his
companion the household chronicle set down
on its first leaf:

"1744.  St. Bartholomew's Day.  My father,
Hans Christoph, died.  The lord count, who
was present, made me his successor as head
forester.  Hans Conrad Ducker."

"1752.  St. Fabian's Day.  I married Gertrude
Maria, peasant Steinfurt's daughter.
Was, on the above day, thirty-one years old,
and my wife will be nineteen next St.
Bridget's.  My happiness is complete.  May
Heaven bless our union!"

"1753.  On the twelfth of July our first
child born.  He shall be called Hans Christoph."
A cross follows and the remark,
"Died at midnight on the first of January,
anno 1755."

"1755.  Annunciation Day.  Our second son
born.  I am very glad.  God bless him.  He
shall be called after my brother Peter
Michael."  A cross follows, and the note,
"Died on St. Walpurgis, 1757."

"1755.  St. Hubert's Day.  Won the silver
cup with a master shot.  The lord count
praised my shooting before all the gentlemen."

"1756.  St. Anne's Day.  A daughter born
to me.  Heaven bless her.  She shall be
called Gertrude Johanna."

"1756.  St. Egidius' Day.  My wife Gertrude
Maria died of a Shot in the wood.  I
will not curse her.  God be a merciful judge
to us both."

"1771.  My lord the old count died on St.
Valentine's Day.  The young Lord Leonard
Joseph Francis takes his place."

There was no more to read.  One entry in
the list excited the same thought in both the
lovers.  This man it was evident had killed
his wife on St. Egidius' day; and they had on
the same date whispered their heart's love
over the murdered woman's grave.  Then,
again, why did the old huntsman register his
sons as born into his household, but his
daughter as born only to himself?  These
things the lovers noticed as they read the little
chronicle; but they spoke only of the hunting
cup, the marksman's prize, still in the window,
looked at it, and returned into the other
chamber.  Another door seemed to lead from
it into other rooms.  They walked in that
direction, and the young man saw that they
were following a trail of dark stains on the
floor.  He did not point them out to his
companion.  The door led to a narrow stair;
perhaps the trail was there, but there was
no light by which it could be seen.  The stair
led to a room that had been prettily furnished,
and of which the window opened at once
upon a broad terrace that swept back towards
the wood.  The moon had by that time
risen, and shone through this window.  One
pane had been broken.  Splinters of glass
lay close under it.  The table was overthrown,
a broken lamp was on the floor; also a book,
handsomely bound, which seemed to have been
ground under the heel, rather than trodden
upon, by a strong man.  The English lady
stooped to pick it up, but as she did so she
saw, by the moonlight, stains upon the oaken
boards, which made her suddenly recoil and
lean, trembling, on her lover for support.
They looked towards the sofa, an old piece of
furniture covered with blue damask; upon
that, too, there was a large dark stain, and
over it the bright moon east the shadows of the
two young people.  The shadow of a young
man erect—the shadow of a young girl clinging
to it, violently trembling.

"Look!  look!  Eustace," cried the girl.
"Those are not our shadows!"

"Indeed, love, they are."

"Did you not tell me this was St. Egidius'
day?"

Both started, for there was a sudden flutter
in the room, distinctly heard.  The young
man promptly saw and pointed out that this
was nothing supernatural.  Beside an
unpressed  bed in one corner of the room, there
were some more handsomely bound books