ouder and merrier than all. And by his right side sat a
beautiful lady; and ever and anon he turned from others to whisper soft
vows in her ear.

"And oh," said the bright dame of Falkenberg, "thy words what ladye can
believe? Didst thou not utter the same oaths, and promise the same love,
to Ida, the fair daughter of Loden, and now but three little months have
closed upon her grave?"

"By my halidom," quoth the young lord of Adenheim, "thou dost thy beauty
marvellous injustice. Ida! Nay, thou mockest me; _I_ love the daughter
of Loden! Why, how then should I be worthy thee? A few gay words, a few
passing smiles,--behold all the love Adenheim ever bore to Ida. Was
it my fault if the poor fool misconstrued such common courtesy? Nay,
dearest lady, this heart is virgin to thee."

"And what!" said the lady of Falkenberg, as she suffered the arm of
Adenheim to encircle her slender waist, "didst thou not grieve for her
loss?"

"Why, verily, yes, for the first week; but in thy bright eyes I found
ready consolation."

At this moment, the lord of Adenheim thought he heard a deep sigh behind
him; he turned, but saw nothing, save a slight mist that gradually faded
away, and vanished in the distance. Where was the necessity for Ida to
reveal herself?

.......

"And thou didst not, then, do thine errand to thy lover?" said Seralim,
as the spirit of the wronged Ida returned to Purgatory.

"Bid the demons recommence their torture," was poor Ida's answer.

"And was it for this that thou added a thousand years to thy doom?"

"Alas!" answered Ida, "after the single hour I have endured on Earth,
there seems to be but little terrible in a thousand fresh years of
Purgatory!"*

* This story is principally borrowed from a foreign soil. It
seemed to the author worthy of being transferred to an English
one, although he fears that much of its singular beauty in the
original has been lost by the way.

"What! is the story ended?" asked Gertrude.

"Yes."

"Nay, surely the thousand years were not added to poor Ida's doom; and
Seralim bore her back with him to Heaven?"

"The legend saith no more. The writer was contented to show us the
perpetuity of woman's love--"

"And its reward," added Vane.

"It was not _I_ who drew that last conclusion, Albert," whispered
Gertrude.

CHAPTER IX. THE SCENERY OF THE RHINE ANALOGOUS TO THE GERMAN LITERARY
GENIUS.--THE DRACHENFELS.

ON leaving Cologne, the stream win