CHAPTER IV.

"We go, it may be, to return no more, Or, if we do return, we bring again

Only the form which we took hence with us:-
The hopes are perish'd, and the thoughts are fled,
And the affections frozen or exchang'd,

And, save the frame, it is another man,
Not him who hence departed!"

On the day appointed by Father Felix did the Baroness of Marchfeldt bid adieu to the towers of her fathers, her health being considered sufficiently re-established to enable her to undertake the journey to Vienna without risk. The recent shock had not passed, however, without leaving its traces; her cheek had lost its bright vermilion, and the very faintest tint of the rose now coloured it; and her mind, which had gradually recovered her brother's loss, was now relapsed into mournful thoughtfulness. To

Father Felix, and to Conrade, she had more than once named Wolfsteïn, but it was only to express the fear she could not help harbouring of his farther persecutions; the threat with which he quitted her presence having left a heavy foreboding of evil on her mind. Felix in vain endeavoured to console her with the assurance, that the languor left on her spirits by the severe malady from which she was scarcely recovered was sufficient to cause the gloomy misgivings which ever accompanied her recollection of the preceding events;-but no: she felt assured that Wolfstein would cast an inauspicious influence over her destiny:-it was no theme for argument; the mind was deeply imbued with one idea, and time and circumstances could alone deliver it from such oppression. The Baroness believed she should be safer in the crowded haunts of men.

"There, at least," said she, "his fearful image, which is incessantly menacing

my peace, will be driven away, for I will mix with the gay and the busy, and seek my companions amongst those who will assist me in the task of forgetting how cloudily my dawn has risen. If I can learn to forget, I may begin to hope."

Conrade, although far from encourag ing the alarm of his lady, was extremely solicitous that her suite should be numerous and well armed; for, in his heart, he bore witness to the justice of her apprehensions. Barbara travelled in the same coach with her lady and Father Felix the latter sate wrapt in his grey woollen mantle, his cowl covering his face, and absorbed as usual in deep meditation. The change he was about to encounter was almost as severe a trial as he could be called on to meet, for the world was no place for him, and the world's ways were not his ways; still he was convinced it was the sphere wherein the Baroness of Marchfeldt was born to move, and that it was his duty to follow and watch over

his charge wheresoever her destiny might lead her when, therefore, he found the contrast his mind presented to him hetween the tranquil banks of the Raab and the tumultuous seat of empire too irksome to be dwelt on, he exchanged his reverie for his breviary; so that meditation and prayer almost wholly occupied him. Barbara alone looked with unmixed delight to the termination of the journey. She saw the world in prospect as a garden of roses, and cared not for the thorns;-in short, though a few kindly tears fell from her eyes as she received the embraces and admonitions of Justina, and shook hands with old Sigismond, the day on which she lost sight of the grey walls of Marchfeldt was entered on her tablet as the happiest she had ever seen. Albeit, this first day's progress was an indifferent earnest of the future for this volatile maiden, who deprecated the silence and reserve of her fellow travellers, without having skill or

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assurance to break it, and the only interruptions it experienced took place at the different post-houses. The Baroness, to whom the gay temper of Barbara had often brought amusement in the solitude of her castle, was accustomed to allow this favourite maiden more familiar intercourse than any of her, other attendants. As evening drew on she recollected, with some surprise, that the voice of Barbara had scarcely been heard during the day.

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My poor girl," said she, " I did not think to see you look so sad during a journey which has been in your breast the theme of so many splendid anticipations. You have observed a weary silence, and are no doubt preparing for your carnival by the severest of all possible penances."

"No, my lady, it is not altogether that which makes me look so sad, for I was just then thinking of something, which, if I did not fear to offend your ladyship, I fancy I ought to tell, and I was musing