ast with her hand, she
sank slowly on her knees, whispering, in great agitation:

"Pater, peccavi. There is something which I have never confessed to
you, and which lies heavy on my conscience."

"What is it?"

"Oh, I fear to tell you!"

"Daughter, fear nothing," said the priest, soothingly. "God is
merciful to human weakness."

"I believe that; but I am more afraid that you will laugh at me."

"Ah!" And the pastor, at this strange speech, fell back in his chair,
smiling to himself.

The countess rose from her kneeling position and went to her
writing-table; she opened a secret drawer, and took from thence an
album. It was a splendid book with an ivory cover, chasings of gilt
enamel, and clasp of the same.

"Will you look through this album, father?"

The priest opened the clasp, took off the cover, and saw a collection
of cabinet photographs, such as are generally to be found on drawing
room tables. There were portraits of eminent statesmen, poets, actors,
with whose likenesses all the world is familiar. Two points were
remarkable in this gallery--one, that no one was included who had any
scandal connected with his name; secondly, it was only clean-shaved
men who had a place in the volume. Herr Mahok recognized many whom he
knew either by sight or personally--Liszt, Remenyi, the actors
Lendvay, Szerdahelyi, and others, together with many foreign
celebrities, who wore neither beard nor mustache. Another peculiarity
struck the pastor. Several of the leaves, instead of portraits, had
pieces of black crape inserted into the frames. This circumstance made
him reflective.

"It is a very interesting volume," he said, closing the book' "but
what has it to do with the present circumstances?"

"I confess to you," said the countess, in a low voice, "that this book
is a memorial of my folly and weakness. A picture-dealer in Vienna has
for many years had an order from me; he sends me every photograph that
comes out of clean-shaved men, and I seek among them for my ideal. I
have been seeking many years. Sometimes I imagine I have found it;
some one of the portraits takes my fancy. I call the man whom it
represents my betrothed. I place the photograph before me; I dream for
hours looking at it; I almost fancy that it speaks to me. We say to
one another all manner of things--sweet nothings, but they fill my
mind with a sort of ecstasy. It is silly, I know, and something tells
me that it is worse than silly, that it is s