dare not act according to your and your daughter's protestations, but must judge according to the evidence of the case and to the strict letter of the law."

CHAPTER VII.

THE SENTENCE, AND ITS FULFILMENT.

EVERYBODY in the castle, and in Eichberg, was now on the 'qui vive' to know how the affair about Mary would end. All the well-disposed class trembled for her life, for at that time the crime of theft always met with the most severe punishment; and many persons were executed for stealing things which did not amount to half the value of the ring. The Count was very anxious to prove Mary's innocence. He read all the notes of the case through, conversed for hours with the Judge, but could not remove from his mind the impression of her guilt; for it appeared absolutely impossible that any other person could have purloined the ring. The Countess and her daughter Amelia implored, with tears in their eyes, that Mary should not be executed. The poor old father prayed in prison, without ceasing, night and day, to GOD, that He would bring his child's innocence to light. Mary, each time she heard the officer with his rattling keys approach, thought he was about to announce to her the sentence of death. The executioner, in the meanwhile, cleared the place of public execution from the grass and weeds which had grown over it; and Jettchen saw him at this work as she was walking out, and felt a pang at her heart. She was much disconcerted, looked very pale when she sat down to supper, and did not eat anything: it was evident to all that she had something on her mind. She passed a most restless night, and more than once, while dreaming, thought she saw Mary's bloody head. Her guilty conscience gave her no peace either night or day; but the worthless girl was wickedly disposed, and possessed not that noble courage which would have led her to make a candid confession of her error, and set all things right again.

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At length the Judge passed sentence. Mary, being guilty of an atrocious theft, ought to be executed; but, on account of her extreme youth, and her former irreproachable character, she shall be imprisoned for life in the House of Correction. Her father, if not actually participating in her crime, yet from having brought up his daughter so badly, we consider also guilty, therefore, shall be banished for ever from the estates of the Count. Their effects, though not considerable, shall be sold, to defray the expenses of the trial."

The Count mitigated the sentence, by permitting Mary to

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become the sharer of her father's exile; and ordered that, to avoid all further excitement, they should set out the next morning at day-break.

As Mary and her father, conducted by the officer, were passing the gates of the castle, Jettchen came out and approached them. Now that Mary had got off, according to this heartless, thoughtless girl's opinion, much better than she could have expected, all her former levity returned. That Mary should be executed, appeared to her somewhat hard; but that she should be sent away was exactly what she wanted. She always feared Mary might supplant her, and take her situation; now she had nothing to apprehend on that score. Her former hatred, her malicious

spirit, her wicked heart, now reigned supreme again.

The Countess Amelia had once said to Jettchen, on seeing Mary's present on the drawers, "Take that basket out of my sight! It awakens such painful associations in my mind; I cannot look at it without feeling distressed."

Jettchen took possession of it, and now brought it with her to Mary. "Take your present back," said she to Mary; "my young mistress won't have anything that belongs to you. All your grandeur is faded, like the flowers you paid yourself so handsomely for; and I'm heartily glad I've got the opportunity of giving you back the basket.'

She threw it at Mary's feet, turned towards the castle with a jeering laugh, and banged the gate after her. Mary, picking up her little basket with tears in her eyes, pursued her journey.

Her father had not even a staff to support him; Mary's only possession was her basket. With weeping eyes she looked back at least a hundred times to her father's house, until at last it disappeared; and the castle and the top of the Church tower faded before her, by the rising of a woody hill.

After the officer had conducted them to the border of the county, he left them in a thick wood; and poor old Jacob, exhausted by sorrow and grief, seating himself on the border stone, which was thickly covered with moss, and shaded by oaks a hundred years old, said, "Come, my child," (encircling Mary in his arms, and raising her hands with his, towards heaven,) come,-let us now thank God for His mercy in leading us out of that narrow, dark prison, and permitting us again to breathe the pure, fresh air of heaven, under this bright, blue canopy; for saving our lives, and for giving me back once more thee, my own dear girl."

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Jacob, again raising his glance to heaven, which beamed forth bright and blue through the green oak foliage, prayed in a loud voice : Holy FATHER in heaven! Thou, the great, the allmerciful supporter of Thy children on earth! Thou mighty Pro

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tector of the oppressed! hear the united praise and thanks of father and child, whom Thou hast graciously brought out of chains, bands, and prison, and preserved from death. Receive, O GOD, our thanks, for all the mercies Thou hast given us in this land. How could we leave the borders without raising our voice in thanks to Thee? Behold, ere we enter a strange country, we would pray to Thee! Look down upon a poor father and his weeping child; take us under Thy protection: Be Thou our guide on the rough path which perhaps we must now tread; lead us to good people; incline their hearts to sympathize with us; grant that we may find a little spot upon Thy wide earth, where we may pass the rest of our pilgrimage in peace, and die in faith. Yes, Thou hast already prepared a home for us, although we cannot yet see it. We now wander towards it, in faith and trust in Thee, through JESUS CHRIST OUR LORD."

After they had both thus prayed, (for Mary repeated inwardly each word after her father,) they felt a calm peace and joyful spirit diffused within them.

Whilst Jacob and his daughter were seated on the stone, Antony, the Count's old huntsman, approached them; he was then hunting a stag. He had formerly been a fellow-servant of Jacob's, and had also travelled with the Count.

"Good morning, Jacob," said he; "is that really you? I thought I heard your voice, and was not mistaken, I see. So they have really sent you away. Well, now, that's very hard, to be obliged to leave one's own happy home when one gets old!" "The earth is the LORD's, and it is as expansive as the wide blue heavens; GOD's love watches over us everywhere; heaven is our home."

"Ah!" said the hunter again, compassionately, "why they have sent you away without anything in the world belonging to you! you have not even the necessary clothing for such a journey!"

"He Who clothes the lilies will also clothe us," replied Jacob.

"And you are not provided with money, either?" asked the hunter.

"We have a good conscience," answered Jacob," and with that we are richer than if the stone upon which we sit were gold, and belonged to us."

"Tell me, though," said the hunter, "have you really not even a few kreutzers ?".

"This empty basket which lies at my feet," said Jacob, "is our only possession. What do you think it might be worth?"

"Indeed!" said the huntsman, feelingly, "a gulden, or perhaps a thaler. But what is that !"

"Well," said Jacob, smiling, "then we are really rich, if the LORD will be pleased to continue to bless me with these strong arms. In a year I can make at least a hundred such baskets, and with a hundred thalers we can live very comfortably. My father, who was a basket maker, insisted upon my learning this art, as well as that of gardening, in order that I might have a profitable occupation in winter. I have reason to thank him, who is now in the grave, for it. He provided for me better than if he had left me three thousand guldens, the interest of which would have been a hundred thalers a year. A peaceful heart, a healthy body, and a respectable trade, are the best and safest riches on earth."

"Well, thank God," said the huntsman," that you look at it in this light! no doubt you are right. I think also you may be able to make something by your knowledge of gardening. But -where do you intend to go?"

"Onwards, far, far away," said Jacob, "where GOD leads us." "Jacob," said the huntsman, "take this thick, strong staff with you; I have found it very useful in climbing that pathless mountain yonder. You have not even a walking-stick! And here," continued he, drawing a little leathern purse out of his pocket, "here is some money; I received it for wood yesterday evening, in the little village yonder, where I passed the night."

"The staff," said Jacob, "I will accept, and use it in remembrance of a good, kind friend; but the money I cannot take. As it was for wood, it belongs to the Count."

"Good old Jacob !" said the huntsman, "don't be concerned about that; the money has been already paid to the Count. I had for many years advanced it for a poor man, who could not pay for wood, and really thought no more about it. Yesterday, quite unexpectedly, he gave it me back with many thanks, saying he was now in better circumstances. The money seems to be sent to you from God."

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'Well, then, I will take it," said Jacob, "and the LORD will make it good to you some other way. Behold, Mary," said he to his daughter, "how good GoD is to us in the beginning of our journey! He has sent, before we leave the borders, our kind old friend, who gives me his walking-staff, and provides us with money. Even before we rise from this stone He has answered our prayers. Be, therefore, joyous and courageous; GOD will continue to care for us.' ""

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The old huntsman, with tears in his eyes, now took leave. Good-bye, Jacob,-farewell, Mary," said he, shaking first Jacob, and then his daughter, warmly by the hand. “I have always looked upon you as honest people, and I still do so. All will go right with you; 'honesty is the best policy.' Yes, yes. The steps of a good man are ordered by the LORD, and he de

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lighteth in His way. Though he fall he shall not be utterly cast down; for the LORD upholdeth him with His hand.** that text with you on your way, and-GOD be with you."

Take

The huntsman turned away much affected, and went towards Eichburg. Jacob rose from his seat, and taking his daughter by the hand, went through the wood-into the wide world.

ELVIN RIVER.

THREE fields beyond our dwelling place, a limpid streamlet floweth,
From spring-head onwards I have traced it wheresoe'er it goeth;
I used to idle on the banks, and childishly to ponder

O'er that river's shining course with pleasant awe and wonder,
Arranging in my secret mind a creed of mystic birth,
That Elvin river was a type of my own doom on earth:
And so from spring-head to the vale where many waters meet,
I learnt the story page by page, and other lessons sweet.
Where the yielding greenest moss gathers o'er the rounded rocks,
('Tis the shepherds fav'rite rest, crook in hand, to watch their flocks,)
There amid the scented thyme, fern, and hyacinthine bells,
Forth a hundred ripples gush on flowery paths to distant dells;
'Mid this waste of summer sweets, mark a fostering hand is near,
And a marble basin fair receives some falling diamonds here;
Thence again 'mid beds of roses, sporting, toying on its way,
Where a classic temple craves mirrored grace and fond delay,
Heedless on the water runneth, wideneth, and will not stay;
Tasteful bowers are left behind, grand and festal scenes are o'er,
And ere spring-head murmurs fade, bids adieu for evermore.
Merrily the streamlet floweth, hidden under archways drear,
Merrily it floweth through ruins dim and sights of fear;
'Tis a young and saucy streamlet frolicking so lightly by,
With its surface all unruffled, e'en though wintry breezes sigh;
Gliding on transparently with a murmuring song for ever,
Looking not to right or left-oh! it was a careless river!
Through the sheltered pasture fields, winding in and winding out,
How the frisking waters ran, hereabout and thereabout!
Old oak-roots and ivy leaves, cowslip beds and violet banks,
Washing o'er, and now and then foaming up and playing pranks.
'Twas an idle, roving life; but the dancing days were done,
When a graver work was found from the dawn to set of sun;
And the noisy mill-wheel turning, whispered to the busy water-
"Thy proud heart is humbled now, dainty, foolish, idle daughter!"
Useful days and dreamless nights fill up thine appointed race,
While the stars reflected shine on the mill-pool's placid face-
But stars shone on the other side of that clever, talking mill,
And the holy moonbeams fell not alone on waters still.
Darting forward with a power they had never known before,
Swiftly onwards now they flew escaping from the prison door;
Flowery meads and gardens trim were as though they ne'er had been,
Darksome depths, and raging foam, and splitting rocks made up the scene:
There is a deep and dread abyss, and into it the water leaps-
A silver thread diverging ere the furious current madly sweeps:-
I knelt to list the distant roar of the tumbling waters wild-
I prayed no wanderer forlorn along that way might be beguiled-
But follow by the silver thread to pastures fair where nature smiled.
Straight and narrow is the stream, the humble stream is known to few-
It leads to cloister'd solitudes, and bids the heartless world adieu :
Straight and narrow-pure and deep-onwards, onwards, calmly gliding-
Ocean's mighty bosom this, and many silver streamlets hiding.

C. A. M. W.

*Ps. xxxvii. 23, 24.