had killed poor Elizabeth. Others remembered to have heard that she lived in great seclusion, and never approached her daughter-in-law; whilst some others spoke of a family ghost, which always appeared in the form of the oldest member of the Werdenberg house: in short, they said this and that, until Leonora was shunned by nearly all of us as a supernatural being.

In the meantime, the baroness was reported to be better; and in a few weeks she herself appeared, to find consolation in the sight of her only surviving child. It was the middle of the day when she came; we were all standing round the dinner-table asking a blessing, poor Leonora being next to Madame Bernard. Her mother folded her in her arms before the girl had noticed her approach.

"Leonora, my darling, good child!" said the beautiful woman, covering her daughter's pale face with tears and kisses.

The girl hid her face in her mother's bosom, and wept aloud. But presently she arose, and with that fearful, unnatural laugh that had so often frightened us previously, she exclaimed "Take away the white veil, mother, it frightens me!"

The baroness shuddered, became pale as death, and said, with an expression of the greatest horror, "Leonora-I entreat you, Leonora, be careful how you speak!" But the unhappy girl once more gazed at her with the same wild look, pressed her hand over her mother's head and forehead, and concealed her face, sobbing violently. In great agitation, the baroness left the room, and soon afterwards departed for home, having previously had a consultation with the physicians.

Nothing more was at present said of Leonora's departure; but Madame Bernard herself separated her from us. A few days later the Baron came, accompanied by his mother, to take Leonora away. We all felt that a leaden weight had fallen from our hearts, when we were informed: "To-morrow, Leonora of Werdenberg will go away with her relations, and finally leave the establishment."

When she took leave of us, we were all taken to her separately. I was frightened at her look in her pale features there was a striking resemblance to her grandmother's unnatural look. With a sorrowful smile, she gave me her iey-cold hand, and said, “I am going to take leave of you; yet do not weepI am as an old woman among children! The Leonora whom you loved lies buried with her sister." Then, taking my album out of my hand, she said, laughing, "Must ghosts also write in

your album?" And without heeding my remonstrances, she wrote in my book the abovementioned words-about whose connection with her fate I asked her in vain. I thought the poor child was diseased in her mind, and ventured no reply. Madame Bernard volunteered no explanation, and at last altogether forbade us to speak of Leonora : from henceforth, therefore, the stories about apparitions and spectres naturally received importance, and were believed in by us. The sisters' room was at the same time shut up, and a new assistant-teacher was appointed to sleep in it. The rattling of the window-frames, and the rustling of the wind among the boughs and leaves, brought back to our minds the remembrance of Elizabeth's sorrows; and when the owl, on the roof of a neighbouring church, uttered his ominous greeting, we seemed distinctly to hear Leonora's incomprehensible, but on that account more perplexing, words about the white veil.

CHAPTER II.

THE CASTLE OF WERDENBERG.

YEARS had passed away. I had heard little of Leonora, and only knew that her mother had died soon after the former's return home. The Baron, her father, had been travelling on the Continent ever since his wife's death, and Leonora lived always with her grandmother at Werdenberg Castle.

One day, during my journeys, I found myself in the neighbourhood of my former companion, and I could not withstand the desire of visiting her at the castle of her ancestors. It was autumn, and the evening mist was just rising; in the fields everything was lonely and still. A boy was driving home a flock of sheep from the edge of the precipice near the castle; but forms and colours soon disappeared in the increasing darkness. Everything spoke of neglect and ruin. As I approached the castle, the marks of decay, which even the green covering of ivy could not conceal, became visible on the walls and towers. In the courtyard all was quiet and deserted: long, damp grass covered the stone pavement, while moss and lichens grew on the walls. In the hall and on the steps there was a mouldy atmosphere. It may be well imagined how this melancholy appearance oppressed my heart!

But that made Leonora's greeting appear so much the warmer; she led me with great cordiality to the fireside, inquired after my journey, my plans for the future, and after

my friends; and soon convinced me that, in spite of her seclusion, she still took an interest in the world's affairs. By degrees, I became at home with her, and asked after her manner of life. Then I saw, with grief and fear, that well-known smile pass over her pale face, and that she struggled to become master of her emotion. But she appeared accustomed to such conflicts, for soon, with a bright face and peaceful smile, she answered

"My life, dear friend, is very solitary here, and will always remain so. Days, months, and years go by and bring no more change in the oneness of a country life than the changes from light to darkness, and from the blossoming to the withering of nature."

"But why this life of voluntary seclusion and inactivity?" asked I. "Your mind has no enjoyment in it, for it comprehends, I know, a much wider range; your heart-" I did not venture to continue in this searching tone. Leonora quietly answered—

"My life must be solitary, my friend; you do not know the history of our family: if you did, you would understand my manner of life. Ah! the house of Werdenberg-"

But at this moment Leonora was interrupted. The sound of a horn and of the barking of dogs were heard. Leonora hastened to the window; I followed her; but it was too dark to distinguish the features of the horsemen who were hastening to the castle.

"My cousin is returning from hunting," said Leonora. "When he is here-and that is very often-everything in the castle wakes up. Our old servants are reminded of former times; grandmamma then becomes talkative; I myself laugh; and the house, with its gardens and courts, appears less quiet and solitary than usual, and less removed from the world, whose happy and beautiful child Ulrich is; you will be pleased to make my cousin's acquaintance."

Ulrich entered at this moment; I was obliged to acknowledge that Leonora was right. Beautiful and powerful was the tall figure of this young man; his mouth and eyes were full of fire and boldness; the rashness of youth was softened by a touch of romance; there was so much winning grace in his smile, words, and actions, that he might well appear to Leonora as a happy child. But I soon remarked that his cheerfulness concealed an unceasing watchfulness for Leonora. All that could make her melancholy, and carry back her thoughts to the past, Ulrich carefully avoided. He knew how to engage her in playful argument, and thanked me with a joyful and

grateful smile for every assistance in his noble efforts.

When we went to the supper-rcom, we found the old baroness there. She greeted us with great solemnity, and our merriment ceased-at least, there fell on my spirits a leaden weight which I could not conquer; all appeared so strange and ghost-like, that I scarcely breathed until we again returned to the cheerful sittingroom after supper.

The old lady accompanied us thither. The flickering light of the fire fell on her pale and motionless features. She presently raised her heavy eyelids, and began to speak on various subjects; but one could clearly perceive that she merely repeated mechanically oft-told tales. At last our first acquaintance was mentioned, and with it came the remembrance of our dear, departed friend. I ventured a question about the white veil; Leonora nodded her head in token of acquiescence; Ulrich opposed it; but the baroness yielded to my request, and began as follows:

"Whoever is in any degree conversant with the history of our native country, will have found the names of the barons of Werdenberg mentioned under the French emperors. They were brave, warlike, proud, and an ornament to knighthood: during the Crusades they proved this to be their true character. But their misfortunes commenced with the Reformation. A part of their possessions was lost; they became followers of the new doctrine, which they believed to be more efficient for the salvation of their souls. At last, only two supporters of the family remained alive, John and Melchior. They were brothers; John was married, and had seven children. Melchior lived at his brother's castle, and the brothers agreed so well that they were held up throughout the country as models of unity. Hilda, John's wife, often said with confidence, 'However much discord there may be in the world, the peaceful happiness of my house will never be disturbed.'

"But under these favourable appearances were concealed bad passions and great sins. John's heart was too pure and generous to give place to mistrust; he never doubted of his wife's fidelity or his brother's honour. One evening, however, as the brothers were returning together from hunting, they were attacked by freebooters, or poachers. Melchior was dangerously wounded, and brought home half dead. As he lay on the ground, covered with blood, with foaming mouth and rolling eyes, he recognised no one-pushing away even Hilda and the children-the unhappy woman gave way to mad despair. Her children,

husband, and the clergyman, tried in vain to console her; she paid no attention to their remonstrances. When John said with deep emotion, Hilda, we both love our most faithful brother, but let us not forget how much still remains to us!' the unfortunate woman threw herself upon the dying man, and cried in piercing accents, Melchior, do not die! you must not, cannot die! Leave him to me, great God! take everything instead--everything that is dear to me!'

"John and the children stood round her, pale as death, and answered not a word. But the clergyman, who had educated Hilda and converted her and her household to the new faith, laid his hand on her head and said sternly, 'Hilda of Werdenberg, here stands your husband, and here kneel your children; even in sorrow you must not forget your duty.'

"But with a wild, hysteric laugh she pushed away her reprover, and with clasped, upraised hands exclaimed, 'I would willingly see my husband and children die, if only Melchior might be restored to life and health!'

"The wish and curse were fearfully fulfilled. Melchior recovered; but the light of his understanding was clouded. Cruel both to men and animals, he neither looked at nor spoke to Hilda; John alone had any influence over him; but John did not long live to exercise this influence-Hilda soon saw her wicked wish fulfilled! As on that terrible night there had been a gory bandage over Melchior's head, so now she always saw a white cloth over her husband's forehead; it was to her a foreboding of death; and she was right, for within the space of a year after the melancholy events just recorded, John of Werdenberg was carried to his grave. Then, on the head of her firstborn child, appeared the sign of death; so her mind was never free from sorrow, her life was always desolate. She avoided mankind, for everything reminded her of death and decay; over the eyes of children, over the garland of the bride, over the forehead of the healthy man, she always saw the white veil; and, as death approached nearer, it sank lower over the forehead, until at last it covered the whole countenance like a veil, under which the smile of joy and the look of levity contrasted most painfully. Thus the baroness saw her children, friends, and companions die; only Melchior still wandered about the house, in unshaken health, among these dreadful signs of death. His merriment and anger were the only tones which were heard in the halls and passages. When the time of Hilda's departure approached, the poor idiot showed no signs of

6

love or pity for the unfortunate woman; whose death agonies were increased by the knowledge that her fearful gift, the second sight,' remained behind, as a dreadful inheritance to the Werdenberg family. Gertrude, Hilda's grandchild, often asked her for about a year before her death, Grandmother, what is the meaning of the white bandage on your forehead?' and when at last the death struggle approached, the weeping girl protested that the veil covered her grandmamma's face, and prevented her from wiping the perspiration from her brow. And as Hilda lived, so live all her daughters. The fear which surrounds us, the never-ceasing complaints of our hearts, lie as a curse on the grave of our ancestressshe has found no rest in death; listen!-listen! how she moans and weeps!"

As the baroness finished speaking, a soft, groaning voice was indeed heard: it appeared to rise out of the depths of the house, it swelled and increased, it rolled through the halls and staircases, it reached us, blew around and penetrated through us.... Yet it was a delusion -it was only the wind! We had forgotten the autumn evening.

After this relation Ulrich remained thoughtfully silent; Leonora was pale as death. The old lady continued

"I was the youngest child of our family; I had five brothers. Hugo, the eldest, was lamed by a fall from his horse; he seldom left home; but at the same time he liked to see a merry party assembled around him, and usually one of the younger brothers of our house, who were officers, stayed with us when they had leave of absence. Frederick of Werdenberg, one of our cousins, and the only heir of a younger branch of the family, came most frequently. He was to me, Leonora, as dear as Ulrich is to you. Frederick assured me, as Ulrich often assures you, that the fear of the white veil should never prevent him from marrying me and enjoying life. That all the baronesses of Werdenberg possessed the gift of second sight was never doubted, therefore from time immemorial no female of our house had ever married. They had all entered the convent, and several had even died abbesses. I wished to free myself from the curse of our family; my brothers had consented to our engagement, but Frederick's parents still hesitated; the father was ambitious and the mother avaricious, and they had other and higher prospects for Frederick. They were, however, too cunning to oppose their son's will by open contradiction or force; 'we were too young,' they said, 'Frederick should first remain a year at court; we could

correspond.... In short, we were separated with the hope of meeting again soon. By degrees Frederick's letters came less often; he did not answer many things in my letters which were of consequence to me, and often blamed me for this and that, without having any grounds of accusation; at last, his letters ceased altogether. From visitors at our house I learned that he had fallen in love with the Countess Aurora Rosen. When the festival of Easter drew our first spring guests out of town, they asked us whether we intended to assist at the marriage of our cousin with the Countess Rosen. Hugo knew well how to appear collected before them, but, when we were alone, his impetuous nature showed itself in spite of his bodily weakness and infirmity. He declared he would call out the traitor and avenge his sister; and as he stood there with glaring eyes, clenched fists, and trembling lips, I felt that Frederick must fall a victim to his rage. But I loved him still (the faithless one!)-too well to allow that; and belied myself when I declared that,' Frederick's death was too small a compensation for his treachery.' It was long before Hugo yielded; but at length my plan of revenge conquered, and we prepared for a journey to the capital.

"When the marriage guests drove to church on the wedding-day, our carriage was in the line; the arms on the panel and the livery of our servants were recognised by every one. I saw Frederick's mother turn as pale as death when I slowly stepped into the vestry, leaning on Hugo's arm; I myself nearly fainted, and could scarcely reply to the invitation of the director of the ceremonies, who felt compelled to offer the best places to the relations of the family. Happily the bridal pair had not yet arrived, and there remained sufficient time for me to compose myself before their arrival. All looked in amazement at Hugo and me whilst we greeted Frederick's parents with constrained cordiality, and were by them introduced to a few of the guests. Indeed, a greater contrast can hardly be imagined than that which my mournful appearance afforded among this brilliant circle. In my wild grief I had renounced all worldly ornaments; I wore the nun's long white woollen dress, the black rosary, and the broad ruffle. My hair lay smooth and unpowdered under the white linen cap, and my veil fell in heavy folds to the ground. But this garment of renunciation of the world only covered a revengeful heart. I concealed my weapons; they were letters which contained Frederick's vows of love; the ring with which he had pledged himself to be mine; in short, remembrances of

every kind. bridal pair as far as the altar, to wish them every happiness, to present my treasures to the Countess Rosen as my bridal present, and then to return quietly to my place. Oh how often had I pictured this scene to myself in past joyless days and sleepless nights! I had imagined and enjoyed, over and over again, the paleness of the bride and his parents' confusion, the guilty Frederick's shame, and my scornful laugh of malicious derision. However they might disguise it, the thorn would still remain with the bride and bridegroom, which they would be unable to extract for a long time-it might be never. The bride at length stepped forth; two princes walked beside her as bridesmen. I heard the gold brocade of their trains rustle; I listened to the murmur of surprise which greeted them; I saw Frederick walking behind her, accompanied by young girls crowned with garlands, and glittering with jewels. O truly this splendour would not have surrounded our marriage!' 'Sacrificed to riches and avarice!' I exclaimed within myself, and my hands crushed the concealed papers. Frederick's fears were the harbingers of my triumph. We stepped to the church, which was crowded with spectators, and arranged ourselves round the illuminated altar. On the right-hand were the parents and relations of the bride; on the left, the family of the bridegroom. My brother led in Frederick's mother; his father led me in. Already the decisive moment arrived; my brother nodded at me encouragingly. I drew the papers out and looked up triumphantly. The bride, accompanied by her train, preceded me to the altar; then I arose-but screamed, for behold! over the bride's curls, under the myrtle and diamonds, I saw the signs of death on the maiden's forehead! The fairest countenance on earth bore the white veil!"

I wished to accompany the

The remembrance of those days made the aged narrator shudder. Ulrich sprang up, and forbade her to continue; but she still went on.

"A higher judge than I had spoken! Whatever hatred had previously existed in my heart was now extinguished-I could only spread out my hands and invoke a blessing on the poor, beautiful, and unfortunate couple, who smilingly, hopefully, and joyfully went forth to death! The holy ceremony was soon over. Hugo afterwards overwhelmed me with reproaches. I exculpated myself. He was delighted thus to triumph. I gave back to Frederick, silently and tearfully, the witnesses

of his guilt; we parted sorrowfully. Aurora Werdenberg died a few weeks after; Frederick entered the army. His mother died after a short time. Frederick returned home. Sorrow now united us even more than had youthful merriment, and I became his wife. Our sons were the sole inheritors of the family possessions, as their uncles had all died bachelors. We were happy, until I perceived on my husband's forehead the mark of death; and he died after the birth of two granddaughters, who bore into future years the curse of our house..."

"No," interrupted Ulrich, "no; the curse has departed! Not a word more! Good night, good night. And, grandmother, let us hear no more of these things. Leonora, go in peace, and rest! God will preserve you from this punishment! Wear the look of innocence and peace, then it will in truth dwell in your heart. Good night, good night!"

We separated for the night, all deeply moved.

CHAPTER III.

LEONORA OF WERDENBERG.

IN lively terms Ulrich painted his love to Leonora, and his hopes of her ultimate recovery, if she would again enter the busy, joyful world under his protection. Every day that I was at the castle he repeated-"I am quite willing to believe that you really see the white veil, and I believe it is a sign of death; but this appearance is a disease like the false sight of somnambulism, and, like that, can be cured." Leonora shook her head sorrowfully, for it was her firm belief that, in case of matrimony, she would transmit the curse to posterity. When I was alone with Ulrich one evening, we began talking about the mysteries of our human nature, and I promised him to reason with Leonora about her "delusion." I fulfilled my promise; and quiet, happy, sunny days followed. Leonora spoke hopefully of the state of her health, and appeared pleased that we did not seem uneasy about her. She loved Ulrich, but had an undefined timidity (which her grandmother encouraged) about listening to his dreams of future happiness. She believed she must refuse him, on account of their near relationship, and the traditions of their family. But Ulrich, who had found in me an ally, did not give up his claims to her on this account. One day he handed over to the old lady a letter from the Baron, who supported the pretensions of the young man, and entreated his mother to renounce her superstitions. The fresh air of the mountains had so long blown on the

baron during his journeys, that he laughed at the old lady and her curse. The baroness, however, took Leonora's part. Great were the struggles which now took place at the castle; at length, youth and the power of the heart conquered. Ulrich promised to travel for a year, and leave Leonora time to make up her mind to a union, which seemed to her a sacrifice offered to the gloomy powers of fate. She could not get rid of a presentiment that she was appointed to be the last of that branch of the family who had inherited the gift of second sight; with herself she believed that the unnatural gift would die out.

When Ulrich took leave, it seemed as if Leonora could scarcely bear to part with him; she pressed his hand, and clung to him tremblingly. At last, by a powerful effort, he was obliged to make an end of the sorrowful parting scene. She listened to his footsteps, hastened to the window, looked after him, as he nodded to her from the wood for the last time, and then fell senseless into my arms.

When I tried to amuse her, a few days after, with plans for the future, she looked at me with a peculiar expression, half sorrowful, half mocking. I noticed that she was certainly duller and paler; that she avoided her grandmother, and dismissed every occupation which could employ her hands, or divert her mind, with these words-"How useless!" I lengthened my visit as much as possible; at last, I could no longer remain at Werdenberg Castle; but I resolved to write to Ulrich, and urge him to a speedy return. Leonora maintained that the white veil lay over her eyes; she even went so far in her excitement as to declare that she saw herself covered with the fatal bandage, and that she would soon fall a victim to the demoniacal influences of their house.

When I left Werdenberg, I wrote to Leonora's father. From all I had heard of the Baron, I knew that he was not the man to combat with her delusion; but Ulrich, to whom I did not venture to write, might hear of it from him. I represented to the Baron that advice should be asked of the first physicians for this dreadful gift, whose possession awakened a conception of pain, although God imparted with it but a few rays of his omniscience. Months passed away, and spring had brought with it life and joy; but Leonora, as I heard, only greeted it with the sorrowful resignation of one who anticipated a speedy departure. In autumn, Leonora wrote and told me that she was determined to enjoy life's splendours; her next letter, however, brought other news. Her