offering. You may easily judge, madam, how very much I am
disposed to grant you that justice which you claim as daughter and
heiress of the deceased baron von Goertz.'

Georgina, almost frantic with joy, snatched the letter from Arwed's
hand, and pressed it to her lips and heart. 'Lord God, we praise
thee,--Lord God, we thank thee!' she shouted in her exultation, sinking
upon her knee, and raising the paper towards heaven in her clasped
hands.

'It is truly a royal letter,' said the deeply moved Arwed; 'but such a
letter from him would surprise no one who knew him.'

'Oh, my father!' cried Georgina, holding the writing up towards heaven,
'learn in thy place of bliss that thy honor is restored before the
world, and that thy happy daughter has been instrumental in its
accomplishment!'

'You see, my dear Georgina,' said Arwed, 'that Sweden is not unjust.
The public character of a people can only appear through its
government. That justice which the cruel Ulrika, the weak Frederick,
the chained Adolphus Frederick, derided or denied, the worthy Gustavus,
now that his hands are free, grants in the fullest measure.'

'Much,' said Georgina, endeavoring by the introduction of new topics of
conversation to allay the violence of her emotions, 'much was said in
Germany of the revolution which delivered the crown from the usurped
supremacy of the royal council, and I, at least, have cause to bless
the Nemesis who guided it.'

'That occurrence,' remarked Arwed, 'stands like a rare and brilliant
meteor in the horizon of Europe. A national revolution, originating
with the king himself, accomplished in a few days, without bloodshed,
and calculated to promote the welfare of the whole country, is perhaps
unparalleled in the history of the world!'

Both remained a long time silent. At length Arwed inquired, 'how is
your sister, the good little Magdalena?'

'She died many years since, in Hamburgh, the wife of the privy
counsellor von Laffert,' answered Georgina.

'And you--are a widow?' he asked in a low tone.

'Since four years,' she answered with downcast eyes.

'It is the penalty of age,' cried he, sorrowfully, 'that, one by one,
all whom we have loved go before us to the eternal world. Life's way
becomes every day more dreary and desolate, and wo to the unhappy being
to whom remains not even one companion of the good old times. His is a
solitary death, with none to drop a tear of regret upon his grave.'

'Very true!' sa