en. My whole soul is filled with love,--with a love stronger
than the love I bear to my mother and to thee.

"And whom do you love?" asked Aphtanides. And his face and neck
grew red as fire.

"I love Anastasia," I replied.

Then his hand trembled in mine, and he became pale as a corpse.
I saw it, I understood the cause, and I believe my hand trembled
too. I bent towards him, I kissed his forehead, and whispered, "I have
never spoken of this to her, and perhaps she does not love me.
Brother, think of this; I have seen her daily, she has grown up beside
me, and has become a part of my soul."

"And she shall be thine," he exclaimed; "thine! I may not wrong
thee, nor will I do so. I also love her, but tomorrow I depart. In a
year we will see each other again, but then you will be married; shall
it not be so? I have a little gold of my own, it shall be yours. You
must and shall take it."

We wandered silently homeward across the mountains. It was late in
the evening when we reached my mother's door. Anastasia held the
lamp as we entered; my mother was not there. She looked at
Aphtanides with a sweet but mournful expression on her face.
"To-morrow you are going to leave us," she said. "I am very sorry."

"Sorry!" he exclaimed, and his voice was troubled with a grief
as deep as my own. I could not speak; but he seized her hand and said,
"Our brother yonder loves you, and is he not dear to you? His very
silence now proves his affection."

Anastasia trembled, and burst into tears. Then I saw no one,
thought of none, but her. I threw my arms round her, and pressed my
lips to hers. As she flung her arms round my neck, the lamp fell to
the ground, and we were in darkness, dark as the heart of poor
Aphtanides.

Before daybreak he rose, kissed us all, and said "Farewell," and
went away. He had given all his money to my mother for us. Anastasia
was betrothed to me, and in a few days afterwards she became my wife.

THE GIRL WHO TROD ON THE LOAF

There was once a girl who trod on a loaf to avoid soiling her
shoes, and the misfortunes that happened to her in consequence are
well known. Her name was Inge; she was a poor child, but proud and
presuming, and with a bad and cruel disposition. When quite a little
child she would delight in catching flies, and tearing off their
wings, so as to make creeping things of them. When older, she would
take cockchafers and beetles, and stick pins through them. Then she
pushed a gree