es made in the side of it.

Bertha sat there in sorrowful thought, her arm resting on one of the
apertures, and her head, weary from grief and weeping, supported on her
hand. Her dark glossy hair threw out in strong relief her beautiful
white complexion, which sorrow had rendered a deadly pale colour;
sleepless nights had robbed her brilliant blue eye of its usual
animation, and given to it a languishing--perhaps so much the more
interesting--look of melancholy. Beside her sat the rosy Marie, fresh
and plump, a perfect specimen of a merry heart. Her golden tresses,
animated round face, bright hazel eyes, light and lively movements,
were peculiarly striking when compared with the dark locks, oval
careworn countenance, and thoughtful look of her dejected cousin.

Marie appeared to have summoned up her most agreeable mood, expressly
for the purpose of consoling her cousin, or at least to dissipate
her pain. She prattled about indifferent things--she laughed at
and mimicked the gestures and peculiarities of many of their
acquaintances--she tried a thousand little arts, with which nature had
endowed her--but with little success; for only now and then a painful
smile spread over Bertha's beautiful features.

As a last resource, she took to her lute, which stood in the corner.
Bertha was an accomplished performer on this instrument, and Marie
would not have been easily persuaded to play before so expert a
mistress on any other occasion; but now, she hoped to be able to elicit
a smile, at least, if it were only on account of her bad performance.

"What is Love, I'm ask'd to tell:
Fain we would his nature know;
You who've studied it so well,
Why he pains us, prithee show.
Joy it brings, if love be there;
If pain, of love 't is not the spell;--
Oh, then, I know the name that it should bear."

"Where did you get that old Swabian song?" asked Bertha, who had lent a
willing ear to the music and words.

"It is pretty, is it not? but the remainder is still more so; would you
like to hear it?" said Marie. "A music master, Hans Sacks, taught
it me in Nuernberg. It is not his own composition, but Walther's, the
bird-feeder, who lived and loved a good three hundred years ago. But
listen:

"How I rightly may divine
Love's enigma, prithee say.
'Tis the charm of pow'r to join
Two hearts, where e