ome! May we have strength to bear, and courage to overcome them!"

CHAPTER XIX.

THE QUEEN AT THE PEASANT'S COTTAGE.

It was a stormy night. The wind was howling through the pines, and
driving the snow in dense clouds from the highway leading through, the
forest. There was no sound, save that of the winter's gale, and the
trees groaning beneath its power. A solitary light, twinkling as a star
through the dark woods, was shedding its beams on this desolate scene.
It proceeded from a small house near the main road, where the
forest-keeper had peacefully lived with his wife for more than twenty
years. On the hearth in the cottage a merry fire was burning, and
Katharine, the forest-keeper's wife, was industriously occupied with it,
while the young servant-girl, seated on a low cane chair near the
hearth, her hands clasped on her lap, had fallen asleep.

"Martha," exclaimed the old woman, in an angry voice, "--are you asleep
again?"

The girl opened her eyes lazily and yawned. "Why should I not sleep?"
she asked. "It is time to do so, and every Christian has long since gone
to bed. Let me also go to my bedchamber and sleep!"

"No, you must stay here," said Katharine, quickly; "I do not want to be
alone in such a night. The wind is roaring in the chimney so fearfully
that we might almost fancy Old Nick or the French were coming down to
carry us away, or, at any rate, our last piece of bread and meat!"

"Meat!" ejaculated the servant-girl, laughing scornfully. "Old Nick, or
even the French, would be unable to find any meat in your house. Would
that I could only get the wages you owe me for the last six months, I
should leave forthwith this miserable place, where one has so little to
eat, and where it is so dreadfully tiresome!"

"You have not suffered hunger as yet, Martha," said the old woman,
deprecatingly. "It is true, we have no meat left; the last ham we had
has been consumed, and our last chickens had to be taken to town to be
sold there--"

"And your husband has taken away your only cow," cried Martha, half
angrily, half sadly; "he is going to sell the good animal that always
gave us such excellent milk and butter. I tell you it is a shame that he
should do so, and I shall never go back to the stable where my dear
cow's lowing will no more greet me!"

"You will, nevertheless, have to go back, Martha, for the two goats are
still there; you must give them fodder, so that they may give us milk.
They are