e had--led her
under the willow-trees and on to the old bridge, with the glistering
glory under their feet, and the moon in splendor above them? And had
she given him--no, of course not--but yes, what was this? He pressed to
his lips the scrap of lace from his pocket. And there had been one
splendid hour of hope and strength and courage--one hour when the past
had fallen away from him and the future opened to his sight a not
impassable avenue.

The moon cast level shadows as the great planet rolled towards the
western hills. Friedrich fancied himself in Germany, far back in the
long ago, when he was madly in love with Hilda. The story unfolded
before him like a panorama of some one else's life. It was, indeed, he
who had loved Hilda, but he felt not a flutter of the emotion now.
_Now_ he knew what real love was. Yet this ardent, jealous lover was
he, and she had jilted him for Maximilian. He went over again the old
arguments in her behalf. Why shouldn't she prefer Max--gay, handsome
old Max? He was nearer her age, and he had just had a legacy from his
Aunt Brigitta, whose favorite he had been. Of course, that reason did
not count. But he was gay and handsome and younger. Surely those three
excuses were enough.

That wedding day! Should he ever forget it? He had thought to go away,
but that would have been unkind to Max, and perhaps have put Hilda in a
wrong light in the eyes of those who knew them. No, he was the head of
the family. His duty was to sit through the wedding-breakfast which her
aunt gave to the bride, and to preside at the feast that welcomed the
pair to Schloss Rittenheim. Though the old love could not enter him
again, the old torture came back poignantly.

After the feast was over and the guests had gone, he had found himself
with her in a recessed window, looking down upon a carriage rolling
away in the moonlight. He had taken her hands, and had compelled her
gaze. She looked so fragile, so helpless, as he thought of his
brother's carelessness and love of self, and he swore a solemn oath to
stand ready to help her and to care for her, if ever need should be.
Max, a little uncertain in speech and gait, had called her then, and
Friedrich had ordered a horse, and had ridden recklessly into the
forest--on and on and on.

For a whole month he had endured the torture of greeting her calmly
every morning, and of lifting her tiny white hand to his lips every
night, and then he had decided that there was no