"We know, as we told you, as little as you. His letters are to be sent to Constantinople. Some from Aberalva are gone thither already." And mine among them!" thought Grace. "It is God's will' .. Madam, if it would not seem forward on my part if you could tell him the truth, and what I have for him and where I am, in case he might wish — wish to see me - when you were writing." "Of course I will, or my father will," said Mary, who did not like to confess, either to herself or to Grace, that it was very improbable that she would ever write again to Tom Thurnal]. And so the two sweet maidens, so near at that moment to an explanation, which might have cleared up all, went on each in her ignorance; for so it was to be. The next morning Grace came down to breakfast, modest, cheerful, charming. Mark made her breakfast with them; gave her endless letters of recommendation; wanted to take her to see old Doctor Thurnall, which she declined, and then sent her to the station in his own carriage, paid her fare first-class to town, and somehow or other contrived, with Mary's help, that she should find in her bag two ten-pound notes, which she had never seen before. After which he went out to his counting-house, only remarking to Mary,"Very extraordinary young woman, and very handsome, too. Will make some man a jewel of a wife, if she don't go mad, or die of the hospital fever.” To which Mary fully assented. Little she guessed, and little did her father, that it was for Grace's sake that Tom had refused her hand. A few days more, and Grace Harvey also had gone East ward Ho. CHAPTER XXVII. A RECENT EXPLOSION IN AN ANCIENT CRATER. Ir is, perhaps, a pity for the human race in general, that some enterprising company cannot buy up the Moselle (not the wine, but the river), cut it into five-mile lengths, and distribute them over Europe, wherever there is a demand for lovely scenery. For lovely is its proper epithet; it is not grand, not exciting so much the better; it is scenery to live and die in; scenery to settle in, and study a single landscape, till you know every rock, and walnut-tree, and vine-leaf by heart; not merely to run through in one hasty steam-trip, as you now do, in a long, burning day, which makes you not "drunk" - but weary-"with excess of beauty." Besides, there are two or three points so superior to the rest, that, having seen them, one cares to see nothing more. That paradise of emerald, purple, and azure, which opens behind Treis; and that strange heap of old-world houses at Berncastel, which have scrambled up to the top of a rock to stare at the steamer, and have never been able to get down again-between them, and after them, one feels like a child who, after a great mouthful of pine-apple jam, is condemned to have poured down its throat an everlasting stream of treacle. So thought Stangrave on board the steamer, as he smoked his way up the shallows, and wondered which turn of the river would bring him to his destination. When would it all be over? And he never leaped on shore more joyfully than he did at Alf that afternoon, to jump into a carriage, and trundle up the gorge of the Issbach some six lonely, weary miles, till he turned at last into the wooded caldron of the Romer-kessel, and saw the little chapel crowning the central knoll, with the white high-roofed houses of Bertrich nestling at its foot. He drives up to the handsome old Kurhaus, nestling close beneath heather-clad rocks, upon its lawn shaded with huge horse-chestnuts, and set round with dahlias, and geraniums, and delicate-tinted German stocks, which fill the air with fragrance; a place made only for young lovers - certainly not for those black-petticoated worthies, each with that sham of a sham, the modern tonsure, pared down to a poor florin's breadth among their bushy, well-oiled curls, who sit at little tables, passing the lazy day à muguetter les bourgeoises of Sarrebruck and Treves, and sipping the fragrant Josephshofer- perhaps at the good bourgeois's expense. Past them Stangrave slips angrily; for that "development of humanity" can find no favor in his eyes; being not human at all, but professedly superhuman, and, therefore, practically, sometimes inhuman. He hurries into the public room; seizes on the visitor's book. The names are there, in their own handwriting, but where are they? Waiters are seized and questioned. The English ladies came back last night, and are gone this afternoon. "Where are they gone?" Nobody recollects; not even the man from whom they hired the carriage. But they are not gone far. Their servants and their luggage are still here. Perhaps the Herr Ober-Badmeister, Lieutenant D*** will know. "O, it will not trouble him. An English gentleman? Der Herr Lieutenant will be only too happy;" and in ten minutes Der Herr Lieutenant appears, really only too happy; and Stangrave finds himself at once in the company of a soldier and a gentleman. Had their acquaintance been a longer one, he would have recognized likewise the man of taste and of piety. "I can well appreciate, sir," says he, in return to Stangrave's anxious inquiries, "your impatience to rejoin your lovely countrywomen, who have been for the last three weeks the wonder and admiration of our little paradise; and whose four days' absence was regretted, believe me, as a public calamity." "I can well believe it; but they are not country women of mine. The one lady is an English woman; the other, I believe, an Italian." "And Der Herr?" "An American." "Ah? A still greater pleasure, sir. I trust that you will carry back across the Atlantic a good report of a spot all but unknown, I fear, to your compatriots. meet one, I think, on the return of the ladies.” "A compatriot?" You will "Yes. A gentleman who arrived here this morning, and who seemed, from his conversation with them, to belong to your noble fatherland. He went out driving with them this afternoon, whither I unfortunately know not. Ah! good Saint Nicholas!-for, though I am a Lutheran, I must invoke him now-look out yonder!" Stangrave looked, and joined in the general laugh of lieutenant, waiters, priests, and bourgeoises. For under the chestnuts strutted, like him in Struwelpeter, as though he were a very King of Ashantee, Sabina's black boy, who had taken to himself a scarlet umbrella and a great cigar; while after him came, also like them in Struwelpeter, Caspar, bretzel in hand, and Ludwig with his hoop, and all the naughty boys of Bertrich town, hooting, and singing in chorus, after the fashion of German children. The resemblance to the well-known scene in the German child's-book was perfect; and, as the children shouted, "Ein kohlpechrabenschwarzer Mohr, Da nahm er seinen Sonnenschirm " more than one grown person joined therein. Stangrave longed to catch hold of the boy, and extract from him all news; but the blackamoor was not quite in respectable company enough at that moment; and Stangrave had to wait till he had strutted proudly up to the door, and entered the hall with a bland smile, evidently having taken the hooting as an homage to his personal appearance. "Ah! Mas' Stangrave? glad see you, sir! Quite a party of us, now, 'mong dese 'barian heathen foreigners. Mas' Thurnall he come dis mornin'; gone up pickin' bush wid de ladies. He! he! not seen him dis tree year afore." "Thurnall!" Stangrave's heart sunk within him. His first impulse was to order a carriage, and return whence he came; but it would look so odd, and, moreover, be so foolish, that he made up his mind to stay and face the worst. So he swallowed a hasty dinner, and then wandered up the na row valley, with all his suspicions of Thurnall and Marie seething more fiercely than ever in his heart. Some half-mile up a path led out of the main road to a wooden bridge across the stream. He followed it, careless whither he went, and in five minutes found himself in the quaintest little woodland cavern he ever had seen. It was simply a great block of black lava, crowned with brusnwood, and supported on walls and pillars of Dutch cheeses, or what should have been Dutch cheeses by all laws of shape and color, had not his fingers proved to him that they were stone. How they got there, and what they were, puzzled him, for he was no geologist; and, finding a bench inside, he sat down and speculated thereon. There was more than one doorway to the "Cheese Cellar." It stood beneath a jutting knoll, and the path ran right through; so that, as he sat, he could see up a narrow gorge to his left, roofed in with trees, and down into the main valley on his right, where the Issbach glittered clear and smooth beneath red-berried mountain-ash and yellow leaves. There he sat, and tried to forget Marie in the tinkling of the streams, and the sighing of the autumn leaves, and the cooing of the sleepy doves; while the ice-bird, as the Germans call the water-ouzel, sat on a rock in the river below, and warbled his low, sweet song, and then flitted up the glassy reach to perch and sing again on the next rock above. And, whether it was that he did forget Marie a while, or whether he were tired, as he well might have been; or whether he had too rapidly consumed his bottle of red Walporzheimer, forgetful that it alone of German wines combines the delicacy of the Rhine sun with the potency of its Burgundian vinestock, transplanted to the Ahr by Charle magne; whether it were any of these causes, or whether it were not, Stangrave fell fast asleep in the Kaise-kellar, and slept till it was dark, at the risk of catching a great cold. How long he slept he knew not; but what wakened him he knew full well. Voices of people approaching; and voices which he recognized in a moment. Sabina?—Yes; and Marie, too, laughing merrily; and among their shriller tones the voice of Thurnall. He had not heard it for years; but, considering the circumstances under which he had last heard it, there was no fear of his forgetting it again. They came down the side glen; and, before he could rise, they had turned the sharp corner of the rock, and were in the Kaise-kellar, close to him, almost touching him. He felt the awkwardness of his position. To keep still was to overhear, and that too much. To discover himself was to produce a scene; and he could not trust his temper that the |