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"Oh! yes," sobbed Annette, "we all knelt to Karl! Wilhelm had tears like the rain on his face, to beseech that he would let us pay that another man should go; but he said that the man with no wife should go to the fight, and he was angry at the last, even with Wilhelm."
"I think your brother was very right," said Margaret quietly, taking Wilhelm's hand in hers; "if he were my own brother, even if he had been killed, I should still rejoice that he had been noble enough to give his life for the right."
"For the Fatherland, yes," said Wilhelm, "but not for this land we need not to love. It is not anything to us, except that we must live. We are Germans; we are not of your blood," and Wilhelm looked almost fiercely at Margaret.
All men are of one blood, when the fight is that all men may be free, my friend," said Margaret, still more quietly, with voice trembling with sympathy, and yet firm with enthusiasm. "Whatever land it had been which first began the fight for freedom to all, I would send my brothers to die under its banners-I would go myself! But I do not believe your Karl is dead. I cannot tell why I have so strong a feeling that he is still alive, but I have no doubt of it-none!"
On the wall of Karl's room, now Margaret's, there hung an oval picture of the beautiful Königsee Lake in Bavaria. On the margin of the print was drawn in rough crayon, a girl's head. It was a spirited drawing, and the head had great beauty. Around the picture was a wreath of edelweiss. Annette had told Margaret that this head was the portrait of a young girl in Ischl whom Karl had loved when they were little more than children. She had died just before Karl and Wilhelm had set out for America, and this rough, and unfinished sketch, drawn by Karl one day, half in sport, when they were sailing on the Königsee, was the only memento he had of her. The edelweiss flowers Karl had gathered on the very glacier of the Watezman, the day before he bade good-bye to his home.
Ever since Margaret had occupied the room, she had found a special fascination in this picture; but now she was conscious of a new magnetism in it. Every morning the first rays of the rising sun slanted across this picture, bringing out into full relief each line of the girl's head, and still more, every fine, velvety fiber of the snowy petals of the edelweiss. The picture hung at the foot of the bed, and sometimes when Margaret first opened her eyes and saw this golden light on the lake and the girl's face, and the edelweiss wreath, she fancied that there were rhythmic sounds in the light; that she heard voices fainter than faintest whispers, and yet clear and distinct as flute notes in the air, speaking words she did not understand. She grew almost afraid of the picture; it seemed a A black ribbon was twined in the ever- link between her and the unseen world. green wreath on Karl's violin, a wreath of Yet she never believed that the link was white immortelles put around Karl's picture with Karl. It was with the unknown on the wall; and the little, grief-stricken maiden of Ischl; the immortal Love Bloshousehold went on with its daily life, brave soms seemed to bind it, to symbolize it, and and resigned. But Wilhelm Reutner's in the tremulous sunlight to utter it. Marface was altered from that day; night after garet was not superstitious, and she had night, the little children gazed wistfully not a touch of sentimentalism in her nature; into his eyes, missing the joyous look from but it was out of her power to shake off the his smile and the merry ring from his voice. influence of this picture. "Königsee, Night after night, poor Annette had cried Königsee," floated through her brain, even as she had cried on the night when the in school hours, like the refrain of a song; sad news came, "Liebling, thou hast the when she looked off into the sky, the clouds little ones and thou hast me: do not die took shapes like the shape of the sides of for the love of Karl." And Wilhelm the Königsee, and whenever she gazed on answered, "Be patient, I had not thought the blue lake, she found her fancy walling
it could be so hard. The good God will make it easier, in time. It must be that the twin bond is strong after death as it is before birth. I feel my Karl all the while more near than when he was alive."
Margaret's hopefulness was not shared by Wilhelm. He refused to listen to any of her suggestions. Weeks later a letter came from Karl's friend, Gustave Boehmer, who was in the same company, and was lying in the trench, next to Karl, when he was shot. Wilhelm read the letter aloud, without a tear or a sob, and said, turning to Margaret, "You see the brother's knowledge was more sure than the stranger's.. I know in that first second that my Karl was gone."
it in with mountains, like those which walled Königsee. By night she dreamed of sailing in shadowy boats, with the shadowy maiden, on Königsee; and she waked from these dreams, only to find the sunbeams on her wall lighting up the shadowy maiden's head, and making golden bars across the water of Königsee. The young maiden of Ischl had loved Karl Reutner very much; she loved him still; else, whence came this thrilling personality in the mute picture record of her and of the sunny day when she and her lover had sailed on Königsee! Had Karl gone to her? Had her love drawn and lifted him up, past the stars, and over the golden wall of Heaven? Were they together now?
Constantly Margaret asked herself these questions, and constantly one answer came. "No! Karl is alive." Ah, well must the shadowy maiden of Ischl have loved Karl! Well does she love him still. Else, how does she always and ever through the mute picture record of that summer day on Königsee say to Margaret, "Karl is not dead; Karl will come home?"
expression of unspeakable rapture. Neither of them spoke as Margaret approached.
"Oh, what is it? What has happened?" exclaimed Margaret, too terrified by their strange attitudes to see that their expression was one of great joy, and not of grief.
Wilhelm stretched one hand towards the table, and his lips moved, but no sound came from them. Annette turned to the table, took up a letter, and gave it to Margaret, saying, "Karl! Karl! He is alive. He comes home."
Margaret sank into a chair. Strong as her instinct had been that Karl was not dead, the certainty came to her with almost as great a shock of surprise as it had come to his brother and sister.
The letter was from Karl's friend, the young lady in the Philadelphia Hospital. It was long and full, giving an account of all that Karl had suffered in the months in Libby Prison; of his almost miraculous preservation at City Point, and of his present convalescence. At the close she said:
"The surgeon says that if Karl has no drawbacks he will be well enough to come home in a month. He most earnestly advises that you do not come here. Karl is absolutely comfortable, and wants for nothing; the excitement of talking would do him great harm. He himself begs that you will not come. I will see him every and write to you every week.” At the bottom of the sheet Karl had written:
Six months had passed. Karl's name was oftener spoken now in his home. Wilhelm could bear the sound. The faithful little children still called their geraniums and fuchsias and roses "Uncle Karl's flowers," and laid the fairest buds and blossoms by the " teacher's" plate at break-day, fast. Margaret was as thoroughly at home in the family as she could have been in her own father's house, and yet there was a shade of reverential deference in Wilhelm's and Annette's manner towards her, and in their regard for her. They loved her as a sister, but it was as they would love a sister who had become a princess. To their simple and unlearned souls her acquirements seemed greater than they really were, and a certain unconscious reticence of nature which Margaret had in spite of all her overflowing enthusiasm and frankness, surrounded her with a barrier of personal dignity which every one felt, and which no one ventured to disregard.
On New Year's night Margaret returned home late from a party. As she drew near the house she saw to her surprise a bright light burning in the sitting-room. Fearing that some one was ill, she opened the door of the room quickly; a strange sight met her eyes. Wilhelm was on his knees, his face uplifted, and tears streaming down his cheeks. Annette stood opposite him, with her hands clasped, looking at him with an
Beloveds, do not come to me. I will the sooner come to you. God be praised.
KARL." Grief has no tears like joy. A stranger would have supposed for the next few days that the whole household was in sorrow. Everybody's face was red with weeping. Nobody could speak in a steady voice. Wilhelm sat silent, by the hour, looking into the fire, and wiping his eyes.
"Oh, Miss Margaret," he said, "oh teacher, taught of some angel, why did I not believe you? Why is it that you, who have not known our Karl, should be the one to be told, and not I?”
Margaret was on the point of telling him that the maiden of Ischl had told her, because she found her sleeping in Karl's room. But a vague shame sealed her lips. She need not have hesitated. It would not have seemed a strange or an incredible thing to Wilhelm Reutner.
The next letters were not so cheering. The excitement of hearing, even by letter,
from his friends, had caused a slight relapse of Karl's fever, and the physician now thought that it might be six weeks before he could safely travel. It was a hard thing for Wilhelm to sit quietly at home and wait for so many days. Only Margaret's influence withheld him from going to Philadelphia at once.
"I need not to see him," he said, "I could go each day to the door and ask if he is better. No hurt could be to him in that; it would not be so hard for me as is this to stay here; and the doctors do not always know the right; no one can do for my Karl so as I can do."
"But Mr. Reutner," urged Margaret, "you do not dream how much harder it would be for you to bear not seeing him, there; it is almost more than you can bear here, three day's journey from him; if he were in the next room, nobody could keep you out; and then if he were to have another fever from the excitement of seeing you, you would never forgive yourself; and it might kill him. He must be very
This last fear restrained Wilhelm. "Yes, if it were to hurt him. That would not be love!" he said over and over to himself, and tried to keep his heart and hands busy in making preparations for Karl's comfort after his return; but the days seemed longer and longer to him; and his face again grew worn and haggard almost as much as it had in the first few weeks after the news of Karl's death.
One night he sprang up from the teatable, saying, "Annette, come to the theater! I cannot sit in this room, thinking how it will be when Karl is again in his corner with the violin. I wish we could live in another house till he is here. It will never be done, these two months!"
After they had gone, Margaret drew her chair in front of the fire, and fell into a long reverie, a strange thing for her to do. She reviewed her whole life; first as the eldest daughter in the poor minister's household; then as the unknown teacher in the great city; now the successful instructress, highly esteemed, sought after by people of position and culture, conscious of influence and power, having in a great meassure realized her early dreams. But the early dreams had been succeeded by later ones no less vivid, no less alluring. Margaret Warren had in her nature a vein of intense ambition. It was not a vulgar craving for power as power; it was rather that a con
sciousness of power craved room, craved action. Her studies, her reading, had opened to her new worlds, and made life seem to her more and more a vista, upon which she had as yet barely entered.
Her æsthetic sense was fast developing into a passion which must have food; beau.y in little things, beauty in great things, beauty perpetually she was learning to demand. A verse of Keats could so stimulate her, so lift her into a delight at once gorgeous and ideal, that she would find jarring and offense in things which her practical good sense told her were as true, as harmonious in their way as the color and rhythm of Keats's peerless lines. She recalled herself constantly; she reproached herself constantly; she said sternly to herself many a time, "Dignity and truth are the same, in all ages. This Wilhelm here, is great; and Annette, and the children, they are representative. Socrates knew no more than they live, each year, each hour, in their simplicity. If I dwelt in a court, the king could be, after all, only a man. All knowledge is open to me. I have but to take it. What do I want?" But that she did want, Margaret knew very well. She wanted the delights of the companionship of the very wisest, and highest men, the delight of the sight and sound and sense of utmost beauty, and still more, the delight of feeling in herself the wisdom, the beauty, the elevation. It was partly a noble, and partly an ignoble craving; partly selfish and partly pure; but stirred, and kindled, and fed by such lofty enthusiasms and purposes, that Margaret must be called a noble woman even in her discontent.
She was roused from her reverie by sounds of strange voices in the hall. As she laid her hand on the door to open it, it was thrown violently open, and she had barely time to spring back, when she found herself clasped in the arms of a tall man, and kissed on cheeks, forehead, eyes, lips, neck.
She was so stunned, so bewildered, she could not speak; also, strong arms held her so tightly that she had no breath, and the first words came from the servant, who ran into the room, calling vociferously, "Howly Vargin, but it's not the misthress, at all, at all, that yee's kissin'. It's the tacher, sir-och, Miss Margaret, it's the mistress he is a takin' ye for.'
That was a moment not to be forgotten. In the dim fire-light, Karl and Margaret
having disentangled themselves, stood for a second looking blankly in each other's faces: Karl, the picture of inexpressible chagrin and confusion; Margaret, scarlet with excitement. But her strong sense of the ludicrous soon conquered every other feeling, and, with laughing eyes, she said, "Never mind, Mr. Karl, I will give them all to Annette as soon as she comes home, and I am very glad to see you back, indeed I am," she added, stretching out both her hands to him; we did not look for you for weeks yet.
As she took his hands in hers she felt that they were cold as ice, and saw that his face was turning white. His strength of a moment before was only the passing strength of a great excitement. He had set out against the advice of his physicians and nurses, had journeyed day and night, and now the false strength given by the desire to be at home was fast ebbing away.
Oh, pray lie down, Mr. Reutner, you
look very ill," exclaimed Margaret, and she led him like a little child, to the lounge. Like a little child he lay down upon it, and looked up in her face, while with the servant's help, she took off his heavy wrappings. Then he shut his eyes, and murmured, "The four leaf of clover."
Margaret was terrified. She thought he was delirious; she dared not be left alone with him, and yet she felt that she ought to send for a physician. She bathed his forehead;-she chafed his hands; she looked helplessly into the servant's face, saying, "Oh Mary, what shall we do?" At the sound of her voice Karl opened his eyes, and said, feebly, "Do not have fear. I will rest. That is all, and if there is wine, it will make me strong." Then he looked long into Margaret's face with a strange, unseeing gaze, and murmured again, as he shut his eyes:
"The four leaf of clover. It have come true."
(TO BE CONCLUDED IN THE JULY NUMBER.)
AN ELEPHANT HUNT IN SIAM.
I RECEIVED an order on the 25th of April to accompany the Regent Chow-PhyaSury-Wongse-Somdetch to Ajuthia, the ancient capital, where an elephant hunt was to take place. I was very much gratified at receiving the order, for not only is an elephant hunt one of the rarest and most curious sports in the world, but on this occasion orders had been given three months beforehand to find out the largest herd and entice them into the traps. The elephants of Siam have, moreover, a great reputation in India, and I knew that especial pains would be taken to make the hunt as splendid as possible, and thus give a mark of recognition to the numerous Naïs-Daps-Falangs (European officers) who had come to attend the cremation ceremonies of the old king Somdetch-PhraParamendr-Mâhá-Mongkut, supreme king of Siam, who died Oct. 1st, 1868, and was burned March 9th, 1870.
The present young king Somdetch-PhraParamendrl-Mâhá-Chulalon-Korn, being in mourning, could not attend, and had deputed the Regent to represent him on
the occasion. Among the Europeans who were present at the hunt, I noticed the American Consul, General Partridge, and the legation, the English Consul, Thomas Knox, Esq., accompanied by the naval officers from Singapore, the Vice-Consul of France, with the French naval officers from Saigon, the Spanish embassy, represented by the Chevalier Paxtoy Chaval, the Prussian Consul, with the officers of the Medusa, then lying at Bangkok, before pursuing her voyage round the world. There were also present the Portuguese Consul, M. Viallat, who so unfortunately perished in this excursion, the Danish Consul, and several American and English missionaries, both men and women, with some European and American merchants and their families. The Siamese were represented by the second king of Siam, with the Court, the Regent, the principal officers of the crown, the Ministers of Foreign Affairs and the Interior;-the grand mandarin of the elephants and the writer were masters of the ceremonies.
Three steamers of the Royal fleet left
on the 24th of April with the guests on board. They started at ten o'clock. Every possible attention was paid to the comfort of the party, a band of music was on board each steamer, and a perfect army of boys in blue and white fanned the guests, while the air was fragrant with flowers strewn upon the decks. As I had received an order to bring the Portuguese Consul in a small pleasure yacht, I set out two hours later. M. Viallat was not ready, but promised to leave as soon as possible. We ascended the magnificent river called Me-Nam (mother of waters,) keeping along the banks, which were fringed with fig, palm, banana, guava, citron and other trees. The air was heavy with perfumes, unknown in Europe, and to add oddity to the scene, little monkeys of various species gambolled and leaped from branch to branch with perplexed look and startled cry.
As the sun began to set, we took the middle of the river, with the double view of avoiding the mosquitoes, and making up for lost time. As the last red ray of the sun died away behind the mountains, the clash of gongs, summoning the talapoints or priests to prayer, was heard from the pagodas, that fled away behind us in the twilight. Then myriads of insects began to zizzee, as the Siamese anomatopoetically express it, and as soon as the moon rose a milky kind of light seemed shed over the earth, while innumerable fire-flies illumined the trees.
We arrived at Ajuthia at half past twelve, where we found the steamers lying at anchor, but the music and joyous sounds on board testified that few of their inmates had any desire for sleep. I went immediately to the Regent, and informed him of M. Viallat's unexpected delay; the Regent seemed annoyed, and feared that his men might lead him astray, as they were but imperfectly acquainted with the road.
I was wakened next morning early by one of my men, and set out to explore the neighborhood. Behind me, towards the east, extended a vast forest to the very horizon; it was through this forest the elephants were to arrive. At my feet the Menam rolled majestically along. On the other side of the river was a vast arena built of masonry, which I found out was the trap. I jumped into a pirogue, manned by a few Khones-Rhuà (rowers) and landed on the other bank, at the very spot where the elephants were to pass. The trap soon showed itself to be two hedges
about twenty feet in height, and gradually growing narrower as they approached the entrance to a large construction, which looked like a pagoda in ruins. An incredible luxuriance of vegetation formed two thick walls of a verdure as shining as green porcelain. The curiously shaped trees were so leafy, so thick, and so intertwined from root to top, that it appeared impossible for the smallest quadruped to pass through them. A thousand birds found shade in the foliage, and saluted the delightful morning with their warblings; red and green parrots climbed to the tree-tops with the aid of their hooked beaks. Among the trees I distinguished the acacia rose, the ginger tree, the stephanotis, the gardenia, the tamarind, the laurel rose, the guava, the papaw, the kadanga, &c., and all these trunks and branches were interlaced together by young bamboos. With every gust of air they loaded the atmosphere with their penetrating aroma. Maïna-Maïnous, large birds of a lapis blue, their breasts and long tails shot with shades of brownish gold, chased velvet, black, and orange colored orioles through the trees; green and blue doves, and others of an irisated violet were cooing among birds of Paradise whose brilliant plumage combined the prismatic lights of the emerald and the ruby, the topaz and the sapphire.
I was awakened from my contemplation by my guide, who informed me that what I was looking at constituted the trap-that in the middle of this luxuriant vegetation, which appeared virgin to my eyes, were on each side four alleys of trees of iron-wood, about three feet in diameter. They were imbedded in masonry to the depth of ten or twelve feet, and such is the luxuriant nature of this climate, that the enormous black stakes were surrounded and hid in two years in the manner just described. Left bare, the stakes would have warned these intelligent animals of their danger. It is necessary to lead them into the defile without distrust, so as to avoid their terrible and dangerous anger. On entering the door, which was just wide enough for the passage of an elephant, we found ourselves in a large square inclosure, built of granite, about eight hundred square yards in area, but without any roofing. The walls were about fifteen feet thick, and thirty feet in height, and the top coped with rose and green colored granite so as to form an esplanade, which was interrupted however on the east and