en who, without pity for her, showed off their lawful loves, had
driven the burning arrow again into her heart. Alas, what could she
do? If he might but return and comfort her for one moment! "Be it even
at the cost of my life; let me die, but only let me see him once
more!"

"Go back to your house: shut the door carefully: put up the shutter
even against any curious neighbour. Throw off your mourning, and put
on your wedding-clothes; place a cover for him on the table; but yet
he will not come. You will sing the song he made for you, and sang to
you so often, but yet he will not come. Then you shall draw out of
your box the last dress he wore, and, kissing it, say, 'So much the
worse for thee if thou wilt not come!' And presently when you have
drunk this wine, bitter, but very sleepful, you will lie down as a
wedded bride. Then assuredly he will come to you."

The little creature would have been no woman, if next morning she had
not shown her joy and tenderness by owning the miracle in whispers to
her best friend. "Say nought of it, I beg. But he himself told me,
that if I wore this gown and slept a deep sleep every Sunday, he would
return."

A happiness not without some danger. Where would the rash woman be, if
the Church learned that she was no longer a widow; that re-awakened by
her love, the spirit came to console her?

But strange to tell, the secret is kept. There is an understanding
among them all, to hide so sweet a mystery. For who has no concern
therein? Who has not lost and mourned? Who would not gladly see this
bridge created between two worlds? "O thou beneficent Witch! Blessed
be thou, spirit of the nether world!"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE PRINCE OF NATURE.

Hard is the long sad winter of the North-west. Even after its
departure it renews its visits, like a drowsy sorrow which ever and
again comes back and rages afresh. One morning everything wakes up
decked with bright needles. In this cruel mocking splendour that makes
one shiver through and through, the whole vegetable world seems turned
mineral, loses its sweet diversity, and freezes into a mass of rough
crystals.

The poor Sibyl, as she sits benumbed by her hearth of leaves, scourged
by the flaying north-east winds, feels at her heart a cruel pang, for
she feels herself all alone. But that very thought again brings her
relief. With returning pride returns a vigour that warms her heart and
lights up her soul. Intent, quick, and sharp, her