re aware that papa's property is in
Ireland, and for some years back it has been totally unproductive."

"How very sad how dreadful!" exclaimed Lady Hester. But whether the
expressions referred to the condition of the Daltons or of Ireland, it
is not quite clear.

"I doubt, madam, if I should have ventured on the confession," said
Ellen, with a voice of calm firmness, "were it not for the opportunity
it offers of bearing testimony to the kindness of our poor friend
yonder, Hans Roeckle. These efforts of mine have met such favor in
his eyes that he accepts them all, taking them as rapidly as they are
finished, and, I need not say, treating me with a generosity that would
become a more exalted patron and a better artist."

"It is quite a romance, I declare!" cried Lady Hester. "The Wood Demon
and the Maiden. Only he is not in love with you, I hope?"

"I'm not quite sure of that," said Kate, laughing; "at least, when some
rivalry of her own wooden images does not intervene."

"Hush! Hans is awaking," said Ellen, as on tiptoe she crossed the room
noiselessly, and opened the door of the chamber where the dwarf lay.
Lady Hester and Kate now drew near and peeped in. On a low settle over
which an old scarlet saddle-cloth, fringed with tarnished lace, was
spread as a quilt lay Hans Roeckle, his wounded arm supported by a
pillow at his side; his dark eyes glistened with the bright glare
of fever, and his cheeks were flushed and burning, as his lips moved
unceasingly, with a low muttering, which he continued, regardless of the
presence of those who now approached his bedside.

"What is it he is saying? Does he complain of pain?" asked Lady Hester.

[Illustration: 110]

"I cannot understand him," said Nelly; "for ever since his accident he
has spoken in his native dialect the patois of the Bregentzer Wald of
which I am utterly ignorant; still he will reply to me in good German
when questioned." Then, stooping down, she asked, "Are you better,
Hans?"

Hans looked up steadfastly in her face without speaking; it seemed as if
her voice had arrested his wandering faculties, but yet not awakened any
intelligence.

"You are thirsty, Hans," said she, gently, as she lifted a cup of water
to his lips. He drank greedily, and then passed his hand across his
brow, as if trying to dispel some tormenting fancies. After a second or
two, he said: "It was in Nuremberg, in the Oden Gasse, it happened. The
Ritter von Ottocar stabbed her