ines were tidily placed on a chair by her bedside, or thrown
carelessly, as they had been taken off, upon the hearth-rug, where her
favorite spaniel reposed, warming his nose in his sleep before the last
smouldering embers of the decaying fire; or whether her crinoline--but
if she did wear a crinoline, what can that possibly matter to you?

All I shall tell you is, that everything looked snug and comfortable;
but, somehow, any place got that look when Bertha was in it.

And now a word about the jewel in the casket--pet Bertha herself.
Really, I'm at a loss to describe her. How do you look when you're
asleep?--Well, it wasn't like _that_; not a bit! Fancy a sweet girl's
face, the cheek faintly flushed with a soft, warm tint, like the blush
in the heart of the opening rose, and made brighter by the contrast of
the snowy pillow on which it rested; dark silken hair, curling and
clustering lovingly over the tiniest of tiny ears, and the softest,
whitest neck that ever mortal maiden was blessed with; long silken
eyelashes, fringing lids only less beautiful than the dear earnest eyes
they cover. Fancy all this, and fancy, too, if you can, the expression
of perfect goodness and purity that lit up the sweet features of the
slumbering maiden with a beauty almost angelic, and you will see what
the baron saw that night. Not quite all, however, for the baron's vision
paused not at the bedside before him, but had passed on from the face of
the sleeping maiden to another face as lovely, that of the young wife,
Bertha's mother, who had, years before, taken her angel beauty to the
angels.

The goblin spoke to the baron's thought. "Wonderfully like her, is she
not, baron?" The baron slowly inclined his head.

"You made her very happy, didn't you?"

The tone in which the goblin spoke was harsh and mocking.

"A faithful husband, tender and true! She must have been a happy wife,
eh, baron?"

The baron's head had sunk upon his bosom. Old recollections were
thronging into his awakened memory. Solemn vows to love and cherish
somewhat strangely kept. Memories of bitter words and savage oaths
showered at a quiet and uncomplaining figure, without one word in reply.
And, last, the memory of a fit of drunken passion, and a hasty blow
struck with a heavy hand. And then of three months of fading away; and
last, of her last prayer--for her baby and him.

"A good husband makes a good father, baron. No wonder you are somewhat
chary of rashly in