THE MARAUDERS.

(From the German.)

DURING the Seven Years' War, in one of the villages of central Germany, there dwelt a rich peasant proprietor named Martin. His comfortable farm-house, which looked more like the dwelling of a nobleman than that of a peasant, was built on his own land, and he lived there with his wife and child, his men and maidservants, and all as it should be. There was a spacious farmyard and ample stabling round the house, and the view from the windows enabled one to see everything to advantage. was the clean, trim-paved farm-yard: there were the stables full of sleek, well-fed oxen, and stately horses; there were sheep and pigs, a wooden dovecot, a hen-house,-everything, in short; and everything denoted comfort and abundance, if not riches and superfluity.

There

No wonder if Martin was not only envied by his nearest neighbours, but by every one in the village. One envied him his fine cattle, another his rich meadows, a third his corn-fields; in truth there was no one who would not gladly have exchanged his farm for Martin's. There are many men who not only covet, but long to possess; and Martin's next neighbour, the peasant Thoring, belonged to this class. There was no reason this man should covet other men's goods, for he had a very pretty piece of land, though it was rather smaller than Martin's. However, a covetous man is never satisfied with having enough; he must always be trying to grasp something more,-always more, even at the cost of honesty and good conscience.

Neighbour Thoring would often stand leaning against the railings which separated his farm from Martin's, with wrinkled brow, gloomy and disturbed expression of countenance, and mutter a few detached words, which certainly breathed no blessings on the head of neighbour Martin. Martin, however, took little heed of all this, he felt himself so secure in his possessions. If neighbour Thoring did envy him and grumble, why it was better to be envied than pitied. So he thought; and he smiled with inward satisfaction when he saw his neighbour's dark, discontented visage peeping through the lattice-work.

The matter did not terminate in mere envying, and spying, and secret coveting. One day Thoring beckoned to Martin, wished him good morning, and then gazed thoughtfully at the sleek cattle which were loose in the yard.

&

"What is it?" said Martin; "you beckoned to me, neighbour."

"I did," said the other; "fine cattle these of yours." "Swiss-best breed," answered Martin, chuckling to himself at his neighbour's en envy. "Horses good too," added Thoring.

"Ay, Mecklenburgers, each worth eighty louis d'or, between friends," replied Martin, as before.

"All in good order, too," said Thoring. Then he added, with a strange and almost pointed emphasis, "It would be hard to give up all this !"

Martin started and stared at his neighbour, who did not move a muscle of his face, but went on, looking gravely and fixedly into the farm-yard.

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Yes," he repeated, with emphasis, "I do think it would be hard to earn all these again!"

Martin answered, "Hard, indeed, but not a likely thing for me to try. Your words are strange ones, neighbour Thoring." Strange? Does that surprise you?"

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Surprise me?" asked Martin, still more excited, "what do you mean, then, neighbour?”

"Well, then, I mean that it would be very hard to give up such a pretty farm, with all your cattle, and meadows, and cornfields," said neighbour Thoring, stubbornly.

"And why give it up? and to whom ?” "To me, then," coldly replied Thoring. "To you! Are you dreaming?"

"Not in the least. I am tolerably wide awake! Do you know, neighbour, I have found a bit of a bond between your father and mine,-both departed. It is a memorandum of a debt your father owed mine,-above eighteen thousand crowns. I was surprised, and did not heed the matter at first, but thought it an old story of thirty years past; thought again, and remembered that my late father once lent yours eighteen thousand crowns. I don't know what for, but I remember often hearing my father say yours wanted to buy the field from Haeger which you now own. I pondered, and wondered that the bit of paper with the debt written on it was still there; and I bethought me that I would just see and ask you if the quittance for the repayment existed. I allude to the capital advanced-the eighteen thousand crowns."

Martin turned pale, and his hand trembled so that he was obliged to grasp the railings, in order to hide his emotion from his neighbour. He was silent awhile, and looked down. At last he said, as calmly as he could, "The bond may be very correct. I know my late father borrowed money from yours;

but the quittance must be there too, to prove the repayment. My father was a very precise man.'

"Quite right; so much the better for you, neighbour Martin," answered Thoring, coldly. "Look for the quittance, neighbour; I will inquire to-morrow morning whether you have found it. We must treat one another like neighbours."

Thoring nodded, and Martin went with heavy step into his house. There was a large oak press in the sitting-room, a strong, massive piece of furniture, secured with brass hasps. He unlocked it, opened the heavy doors, pulled out a large bundle of old, discoloured papers, and read through one after another. When he had looked over them all, the great perspiration drops stood on his forehead; and he sat in deep thought, and leaned his head on his hand. An hour after, he was found in this posture by his wife Mary,-his faithful, sensible wife. She saw in an instant that something unusual had happened. She gently laid her hard, brown hand on her husband's shoulder, and inquired what ailed him.

Martin looked up, and his countenance was disturbed. news, Mary," said he, in a suppressed voice.

"Bad

"It can't be so bad!" she replied. "If God be with us, we need not fear anything so bad. Tell me what is the matter?" Martin told her all. Mary shook her head.

she asked.

"Is that all ?"

"I think it is quite enough," said Martin, rather sharply. Eighteen thousand crowns, owing for thirty years-plenty of taxes-time of war-prices low-why house and farm-yard, garden and field, must all go, if we don't find the quittance. Thoring is a bad neighbour; he will have no mercy on us!"

"And I don't want him to have mercy on us, husband!" said Mary. "But all this has little to do with the bond. Your father was a precise, careful man; he would have mentioned this debt when he died, and yet he never said one word about the bond. Let us look, and we shall find the quittance; I will help!"

And they looked, and sought, and found nothing,-not a trace of, nor even a reference to it, except in some words written in the old account-book, "Eighteen thousand crowns lent by Caspar Thoring," and scratched through with a broad stroke of

a pen.

"There it is!" said Mary. "The money was paid; this stroke is a quittance."

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'Yes, in our eyes, but it won't do for Thoring," answered Martin. "We must show the lawyers something more conclusive than the stroke of a pen."

"Yes, I know it," returned Mary, quietly and gravely; "but

here is the stroke, which says clearly that everything was paid: therefore the quittance must be somewhere, else I never rightly knew your late father,-peace be with him!"

"True," said Martin, more cheerfully, "the quittance must be somewhere, and we shall find it; let us look again, Mary!"

They searched the oaken press from top to bottom, pulled out and looked through every drawer in table or chest, into every little corner, but not a sign of the quittance. The drops stood on Martin's brow; Mary looked grave, but suddenly she brightened. "The farm where the calves are!" she cried. "Well, what of that?" said Martin.

"Why," she went on, "your father was often up there. It is long since we were there; but I remember two old cupboards which were full of something. We must search them."

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"Ay, there may be some papers," said Martin, with fresh hopes; "let us look at once.”

They went. The calf-farm was a cottage a little way out of the village, on the borders of the forest. It was surrounded by a large garden, and a meadow. Martin's father had bought it, that he might spend the remaining years of his life there, as he had given up the large farm to his only son. After his father's death, Martin troubled himself very little more about the cottage, and the out-buildings round it. He did not want to live there, and he only used it to stow away his superfluity, when his harvests had been so rich that his barns could not contain all the blessings of heaven. The calf-farm was therefore neglected and desolate; the roof was covered with 'straw; the panes of glass were dim, and shone with all manner of colours; the plaister had fallen from the walls. Martin opened the wooden shutters, unfastened the house-door, and entered with his wife. The damp, heavy atmosphere quite took away his breath; dust and cobwebs covered everything.

"It seems as if we should come to no good here," said Martin.

The sitting-room, the only one in the house, looked dreary enough. After the death of the old Martin, all the furniture and tools had been removed to the other farm; nothing was left in this dismantled abode but an old rickety table, a couple of shabby wooden stools, and an old press fixed in the wall. Martin went up to the press, and carefully searched it in every corner; but in vain. Some old papers, a broken knife, a short pipe, and other worthless scraps were found, but no quittance. He looked at his wife, unable to suggest anything.

"There is one more cupboard in the corner," she said, pointing to an ancient, blackened piece of furniture, which they had hitherto overlooked, as it was hidden by the great earthen stove.

Martin jumped up quickly, and opened the door with trembling hands: it was empty. He looked despairing. "Let us hunt a little more," said Mary; in the bed-room."

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They went into the bed-room, which opened out of the other -empty-nothing there but the four bare walls, with dust and cobwebs-a melancholy sight.

"All is lost!" said Martin, in a low voice. "The right is with Thoring. It is hard to have to give up everything; Mary, we are beggars."

"Not so quick, good man," answered Mary; "first let Thoring show you the bond. Who knows whether he may not have said it merely to annoy you?"

Martin shook his head. Thoring had not looked merely spiteful this morning, but serious and malignant.

"I must see," he replied. "Come away now, for there is nothing more to be done here."

In silence, each given up to uneasy thoughts, they returned to the farm. Martin passed a weary, sleepless night. Next morning, as he entered the farm-yard, he saw Thoring waiting for him, with his two arms leaning on the railings, just as he had done the day before. Martin looked on the ground in dismay.

"Have you found the quittance, neighbour?" Thoring called out to him. "We will talk about

Martin approached with faltering step. that afterwards," he said, gravely; "first let me see the bond." Thoring dived into his pocket for an old yellow piece of paper. "There!" said he, shortly.

Martin took the paper, and read it two or three times over; all was in proper form. There was his father's signature, which could not easily be mistaken, from the great ill-formed handwriting. He gave back the luckless paper with a sigh.

"Hard upon you, neighbour," said Thoring, "very hard, to lose everything; but you can't find fault with me for wishing to have what is my own. I have had plenty of patience; so now you must pay."

"I can't!" said Martin; "the sum is too great-a man can't have money in time of war.'

"Well, I can take the farm and the land," answered Thoring ; "I shall go to law."

He coldly turned his back upon Martin, and withdrew. A deeply muttered curse followed him; but this helped Martin very little. The law-suit was brought forward; the bond was in due form; the oldest peasants in the village could well remember the transaction in days gone by; Martin could show no