old man closed the door, and courteously drew a stool near the fire
for the stranger who had sought in his cottage a refuge against the fury
of the storm.

He also placed food before him; but the stranger touched it not--horror
and dismay appearing to have taken possession of his soul.

Suddenly the thunder which had hitherto growled at a distance, burst
above the humble abode; and the wind swept by with so violent a gust,
that it shook the little tenement to its foundation, and filled the
neighboring forest with strange, unearthly noises.

Then the countenance of the stranger expressed such ineffable horror,
amounting to a fearful agony, that the old man was alarmed, and
stretched out his hand to grasp a crucifix that hung over the
chimney-piece; but his mysterious guest made a forbidding sign of so
much earnestness mingled with such proud authority, that the aged
shepherd sank back into his seat without touching the sacred symbol.

The roar of the thunder past--the shrieking, whistling, gushing wind
became temporarily lulled into low moans and subdued lamentations, amid
the mazes of the Black Forest; and the stranger grew more composed.

"Dost thou tremble at the storm?" inquired the old man.

"I am unhappy," was the evasive and somewhat impatient reply. "Seek not
to know more of me--beware how you question me. But you, old man, are
_not_ happy! The traces of care seem to mingle with the wrinkles of age
upon your brow!"

The shepherd narrated, in brief and touching terms, the unaccountable
disappearance of his much-beloved granddaughter Agnes.

The stranger listened abstractedly at first; but afterward he appeared
to reflect profoundly for several minutes.

"Your lot is wretched, old man," said he at length: "if you live a few
years longer, that period must be passed in solitude and
cheerlessness:--if you suddenly fall ill you must die the lingering
death of famine, without a soul to place a morsel of food, or the
cooling cup to your lips; and when you shall be no more, who will follow
you to the grave? There are no habitations nigh; the nearest village is
half-a-day's journey distant; and ere the peasants of that hamlet, or
some passing traveler, might discover that the inmate of this hut had
breathed his last, the wolves from the forest would have entered and
mangled your corpse."

"Talk not thus!" cried the old man, with a visible shudder; then darting
a half-terrified, half-curious glance at his guest,