"Oh, my much-injured mother!" sobbed Agatha, bending on one knee, and placing her head upon the baby's lap, as it rested upon that of the old woman.

"God's will be done!" continued the grandmother, "but if he who is now in his grave could see this sight, it would be a blessing to my worn-out heart and give peace to his."

This allusion to the sudden death of her father was terrible to the young mother, and she fainted. Gertrude, her faithful friend, was present, and caught the beloved Agatha in her arms; nor did she quit her during that sad night. As to Bertha, or widow Engelmann, as she was now properly and commonly called, her heart seemed bound up in the fairy clasp of little Gottfried's arms, for though her daughter received much considerate kindness from her, it was to the infant she devoted herself from the first moment of its entrance into the house.

And thus time stole on. Herr Wilmar never ventured across the threshold of the mill, but Agatha carried the boy to Heidelberg, where the student still continued, as often as her strength allowed, for the father doated on his child to excess; and Agatha fondly thought that in Gottfried's love for her darling she had the best evidence of his unchanged attachment to herself;-the best security for the promise he had solemnly given to claim her as his wife on leaving the University. And yet these were gloomy walks sometimes!

On one occasion, Wilmar, as if delighted with the playful endearments of the little boy, said with rather a careless air, which covered a deep design,

him."

Agatha, you must really give me this boy, for I cannot live without

"Are we not both already yours, dearest ?" was her reply.

Gottfried's heart failed him for very shame, when on the point of disclosing to Agatha his intention of speedily fulfilling his engagement with the Fraulein von Heinthal. He had wished to propose taking his boy with him to his paternal estates in Bavaria, or in default of her consent to part with him, making Agatha an annual allowance for his maintenance, until his education should regularly commence. For the present, therefore, he merely told her that he hoped to set out on the morrow on a tour during the vacation with his friend Eberhard, resolving to write what he felt he could not utter in the presence of the blue eyes that fixed themselves upon him with so painful and inquiring a look. So he kissed her cold cheek, embraced his child several times— and he was gone.

"What foreboding is this? What weight of disappointment hangs over me? Why has he left me so abruptly? Without one word or look of strong affection! To-morrow-and with Herr Von Heinthal! Is it possible that he should love me less than he did?—that he can forget?" These were stifling interrogatories, and as they arose, Agatha pressed her son closer to her bosom, and walked rapidly home. Widow Engelmann and Gertrude tried in vain to comfort her that night and for two successive days. At length, on the third evening, the following letter was brought to her by some private messenger, who left it at the mill, saying "it required no answer." True! It fully answered itself, and perhaps more than fulfilled its intended object.

"My dear Agatha,-It is useless to conceal from you the childish folly of the expectations you seem still to cherish; but circumstances

of a very important and decided nature oblige me to undeceive you at

last.

"I think you cannot doubt my providing for your future comfort in a handsome manner; and what more could you hope for? As to my darling boy, I shall, I trust, be able to persuade Amalia-you must know the title that is reserved for her-to receive him, and I promise you that no expense shall be spared in his education and future advancement by me, his father.-Yes, his father! I am proud of the word, and deeply do I thank thee, my pretty Agatha, for this gift of days gone by. They are gone, dearest Agatha. Those things cannot last for ever; and it is only your romantic imagination that makes you fancy you love me as you once did. But we shall be always tender and faithful friends.

"And now let me prove my disinterestedness, and recommend you to take pity on that kind and disconsolate lover of yours, Karl Hormuth. Marry him, and all will be well. You have no idea how easy it will be for you to forget much that has passed between us when you hear the news of my marriage with the Fraulein von Heinthal.

"Tell little Gottfried to kiss away any tears that may by chance trickle from your bright eyes on this occasion, and believe me,

66

My bewitching Agatha,

"Your sincere friend and well wisher, "GOTTFRIED WILMAR."

Agatha read this pitiless letter to the end, and did not suffer the torture of her stricken soul to wake into loud complaint. Widow Bertha and Gertrude sat by the stove, pleased that she should have received a letter from him whose approaching absence from the neighbourhood affected her so much. Little Gottfried was sleeping peacefully in his cradle. All was quiet; when, in a moment, Agatha darted from the window to the cradle, caught up the sleeping boy, held him high with both hands, and burst into wild and shocking laughter, ejaculating through her strained and almost choking throat, "It is mine-it is mine! He shall never have it. It is mine-it is my own!" Then, as if the terrified crying of the child recalled her a little to herself, she lowered it to her bosom, hugged it close, and leaning her cheek against its curly head, she muttered in a low and inward tone,

"Oh, God! this is thy justice! I have forsaken thee, and now dost thou leave me to bear this misery alone! Oh, help me, help me, in this hour of bitter mockery and heartless desertion!"

Thus breathing, rather than speaking, she forcibly closed her eyes, gasped convulsively, and must have fallen on the floor, had not the ready arms of her mother and friend received her.

"Merciful powers! what is this?" exclaimed the astonished Bertha. "The letter, the letter-take it from her-it has been like death to her-and send quickly for the doctor."

"Right, right, my good Gertrude, thou art a sensible girl-give me the letter that I may tear it to pieces."

Agatha's hand was so firmly closed, that it was impossible to draw the paper from it; so Gertrude and Bertha carried the corpse-like sufferer to her bed. The village doctor came promptly and bled his patient. But restored animation could not check the fever that began to revel in her heated veins. A second attempt to disengage the obnoxious letter from her hand was followed by her recognition of it.

"It is my marriage-contract!" cried she, in a tone that made her

shocked attendants shudder. "It is the paper that makes my boy legitimate! Cruel mother, do you want to rob me of it? It cost too much -too much!-No, no, you shall not have it."

"Keep it, keep it, dearest Agatha-no one will take it from you," said the kind voice of Gertrude.

"Where is your brother, Gertrude?-where is poor Karl? There is question of him in this-he is my witness," said the poor patient with the vague look of incipient delirium.

"This must not be allowed; there must be no conversation; she must be kept perfectly quiet, or I cannot answer for the consequences," said the doctor; and as he took his leave, desiring that some one might proceed directly to Heidelberg for the required remedies, old Bertha tottered out of the room, unable to support the trying scene, and the untiring Gertrude took her position by her friend's bed-side.

Agatha watched the departure of the doctor with a cunning anxiety of countenance, lifted her hand towards her ear, as if to catch the last sound of his footsteps; and then, suddenly springing up in the bed, she exclaimed

"He is gone-they will soon be married-I will do it now!"

' 'Oh, my sweet Agatha ! be quiet; do not vex yourself with wild fancies-try to sleep-do pray lie down."

"I tell you no, Gertrude-I cannot rest-there is no sleep for me but in the grave! But he shall not sleep either. I will carry him with me -Gottfried, my son ! He shall die with me-his father shall not have him. Father! what is the name of father to me but a curse?" She struck her forehead, and burst into tears.

"Thank Heaven! now she will recover!" exclaimed her warmhearted and sanguine-minded nurse.

She wept, undisturbed, long and bitterly; and at length, quite exhausted, sobbed herself to sleep. When Agatha was fast asleep, Gertrude crept to the adjacent room to comfort Bertha, and to see if Karl were returned with the medicines.

"She sleeps, widow Engelmann," said Gertrude, in a whisper. "Heaven be praised!" replied the dejected parent. "Poor little Gottfried! he sleeps too-he does not know the sorrow he is born to."

"Come, come, Frau Bertha, don't despond so; take courage, and hope for better days."

"Ah, Gertrude, would that I could do so! but I have no hope of good now. I reproach myself night and day for the misery that has fallen on us all. The ruin of that dear girl was my fault-it was my pride that did it. So don't try to comfort me-it only stirs up my re

But

There was much justice in these self-reproachings. Gertrude, therefore, was silent; and all was now perfectly hushed into repose. Karl had not yet returned; and Bertha and Gertrude soon slept as profoundly as the mother and the child. They had suffered much. Nature and feeling were both weary; and the first few moments of mental relief soothed and overpowered the watchers.

It was during this fatal sleep of her guardians that the patient awoke; and for a time, true to the cunning instinct of insanity, she remained quiet. Then cautiously rising from her bed, she approached the open door. She saw the two women sleeping-she saw the angel infant in its cradle. She drew near on bare feet, and she carefully took up

the babe without awaking it or ruffling its cherub-smile; and then she stole on tiptoe from the house.

I dare not follow her wild and hurried track with that precious creature in her arms. She flitted like a wind-driven cloud; and swept past Karl as he returned from the town to the mill. The young man firmly believed that it was the wraith of the loved one that flew past, so incorporeal in air and gait, so meteor-like in speed! When he entered the open door of the mill, he found Bertha and his sister still asleep. "Wake, in Heaven's name! Why are you sleeping, Gertrude?" exclaimed he, in fearful agitation.

"Was I indeed asleep?" said Bertha.

"How careless of me!" murmured Gertrude to herself, reproachfully. "Ay, that you were, both of you; and but a moment ago her spirit crossed my path; and I thought I heard that wild laugh of hers in the sky."

"Oh, mercy! mercy!-she is gone!" shrieked Gertrude from the

inner room.

"The boy! the child!-Oh, where, where has she taken him?" cried the agonized grandmother at the same instant, on raising the cradle coverlid. Both women stood paralyzed; but Karl rushed from the house, in the hope of overtaking and saving Agatha.

Vain hope! The Neckar had taken her deep into its eddies, and covered her over, together with the hapless infant clinging to her breast! An old fisherman, who was setting his nets, witnessed the dreadful plunge into death, and heard her previously utter these words to her crying child :

"Don't cry, my baby boy! Don't cry, little Gottfried! We will go together to thy father's wife, and ask her to give us shelter. Don't cry, my child! We shall soon see him—and I will give you to him— when

Here either the old man's agitation or the maniac's failing voice rendered the rest of her words indistinct, and the mother's revenge was complete; for Agatha leaped into the river, and sank.

The old man had no boat at hand; but he scrambled up the bank to give the alarm to the first passer-by. This happened to be Karl; and I need not describe his efforts to save the poor suicide, and, when that was hopeless, how he searched for the mother and the child. The search, however, was long fruitless; but the bodies were found the next morning. Bertha Engelmann followed her daughter and grandson to the grave

-in her coffin! Yes, it was even so,-grandmother, mother, and child were all buried at one time. Karl and Gertrude walked in the sad procession with almost bursting hearts. The whole village was in tears. Even the faint tones of the children's voices died away, and the little mourners hid their faces with their hands: so the funeral hymn was unsung.

And poor Agatha lies in the Kirchof, that stands so lone and sadlooking close to the cruel river. Peace be with her!-and may the cherub that perished in her arms have shown her the way to Heaven!

SUCCESS IN LIFE.

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings."

Julius Caesar, Act I. Scene 2.

PERHAPS there are few persons living who flatter not themselves that they are intimately acquainted with the surest roads to success in life. The disappointed, equally with the fortunate, hold this creed. The former will tell you that, although in the instance of themselves practice has not illustrated theory, or, in other words, their success corresponded with their deserts,-still, that such a result has not arisen from any want of acquaintance, on their part, with those principles of worldly policy, which, in the majority of cases, secure individual aggrandizement, but from their having intentionally neglected, or being above making use of those little petty arts, the knowledge of which, however, they do not the less possess. On the other hand, the fortunate attribute their better success to superior sagacity, greater industry, or some special quality they apprehend themselves to be endowed with, entirely overlooking, in their self-gratulation, the influence of accidental circum stances, or the modifying operation of fortuitous events. Now, observation of the world around us, and still more, reflection on its doings, will probably lead us to believe both these classes of persons in error, and wide of the mark of true explanation, whilst, certainly, few subjects present to the philosophic mind a more attractive, or more instructive train of inquiries. Well has the poet observed,—

"The spacious West,

And all the teeming regions of the South,
Hold-not a quarry to the curious flight

Of knowledge half so tempting, or so fair,
As man to man.”

Let us then glance at one or two of the ordinary causes which appear actively operative in advancing or retarding success in life. And, first, as to the value a man should ostensibly set upon himself. This is a point of no slight discrepancy with authors at large, some holding modesty in speech and carriage as the best passport to advancement, whilst others maintain judicious self-praise and consummate confidence to be surer cards in the game of life. Our own opinion inclines to the latter doctrine. True it is the highest of all authorities has declared those who humble themselves shall be exalted; but this unquestionable truth, it is apprehended, applies exclusively to those future rewards which await patient virtue in a higher sphere and purer scenes than any which this imperfect planet can afford, or is indeed declared to present to the pious and holy, who are directed to look for stripes and humiliation in this world, rewards and honours in the next. But not to digress; what man can do himself justice with his fellow-men, who is wanting in self-confidence? The merchant deficient in this quality is frequently led by the specious confidence of weaker minds to yield up a deliberate judgment formed in his cooler hours, and discovers his error not before he exhibits the injury resulting from his failing. The lawyer may be possessed of great erudition, untiring industry, and na