an unwelcome summons to her, and yet it was a friendly, tender withdrawal from approaching sorrow; a few years after, her royal father was wandering about, a deposed king, seeking a home and a grave in an enemy's land.

The fine tomb raised to her memory by her husband occupies the whole of one side of the chapel. There is a large marble chest, of beautiful form and workmanship; above this is a stone couch, and at each end a young child holds back the head and foot drapery, showing the sculptured marble form of the Duchess, who lies in the dreamless sleep of death; floating above her are two angels, and in the centre of the panel behind her is a medallion, containing a Madonna and an infant Christ. A finelysculptured arch rises above the whole composition, and from this arch falls a marble curtain, which is drawn and looped back on either side, knotted up in light, graceful folds.

After we entered the chapel, we sat still for some time on a high marble seat, which runs along the wall opposite the tomb. There was some fine music being played for the service at the high altar, and heavy, rolling pedalnotes from the great double diapasons of the organ were filling the air with glorious sounds.

I looked at the lovely marble effigy of the Duchess, and framed fanciful notions about the invisible musiccurrent, which like a subtle, permeating fluid was making its way into recesses and around columns, in a manner very different from light; it came pouring down from that great organ, like the rays of light from the bull'seye of a lantern, travelling forwards and sideways, upwards and downwards, spreading as it proceeded; yet, from being more reflexible than light, it was able to make its way around solid interpositions such as columns

and walls, instead of lying against them as light does, and casting heavy shadows.

Sweet philosophy of sound! So should we wind around our pillars and columns of grief. But we stand under the glorious arch of Divine Wisdom; we are as little children; we cannot take in its perfect proportions nor see its sublime intention; we can only sit down and mourn sadly in its shadow.

The music filled the little chapel with its rich golden and purple tones; chords and harmonies seemed to blend like curious broiderings on a fine tapestry. The full, sonorous sound of the open diapason formed a solid groundwork. The music was slow, the harmony dispersed, and many suspensions occurred in the progress of the piece. Once in a while the stopped diapason was added, giving body to the pure sounds of the open pipes; then the dulcinea was drawn, adding a haze or atmosphere.

Philip, who had been wrapt in meditation, suddenly started, and, leaning towards me, said in a low voice: "Ottilie, there is a fine passage in De Quincey's Suspiria which tells just the effect this music has had upon me: 'This harmony has displayed before me, as in a piece of arras-work, the whole of my past life; not as if recalled by an act of memory, but as if present and incarnated in the music; no longer painful to dwell upon, but the detail of its incidents removed or blended in some hazy abstraction, and its passions exalted, spiritualized, and sublimed.""

He fell into a still deeper meditation, and gazed with glowing eyes at the richly sculptured tomb raised by a husband's love over his young wife's dead beauty; presently he turned to me, and said to me in a hoarse whisper: "That Duke of Amalfi loved his wife, Ottilie, did he not? Tell me, what does the legend say? Did he ever

love another? Or had he enough cold firmness to go through life without the warmth of a living love beside him? Tell me."

"I do not know, Philip. But he could have loved another and not wronged her; do you not think so?"

Philip looked at me keenly, and I returned his look with steadiness. I understood the meaning of his strange talk, but I could not venture on such a sacred subject unbidden. It was but an instant I had to wait, however, and then it came,-the whole full tide of confidence. He loves Florence Folham with all the force and strength of his matured nature, of his "old sorrow put to new uses."

"Yes, Ottilie,” he said, with deep feeling, "I, who had given up all hope of ever loving again, and should have condemned myself for even thinking of such a possibility, am out in that old whirlpool of doubt and fear and hope." "And why not, Philip? It is very right and natural.” "You do not condemn me, then? You do not call it perfidy to the past?"

I knew what he meant: he was thinking of Ellen; but we could not either of us speak of her, and yet we were both true to her dear memory. I remained silent a few moments; then taking his hand I said,

"Because we love instead of sorrowing,

When life is shriven,

And death's full joy is given

Of those who sit and love us up in heaven,
Say not we "loved them once"!'"

The organ ceased; after the benediction the high-altar service ended, and we left the chapel. We drove along in silence for a while, I thinking much of Philip and Florence. The love for her is beautiful, and comes most graciously in season. His affection for Ellen was differ

ent: it began in his boyhood; there was no doubt, or fear, or sweet, wild delirium about it,— a quiet, sweet blossom of the spring-time of his life, which, if death had not intervened, would have ripened into golden fruit. Just before we reached home, he turned half playfully to me and said with a laugh, which was intended to hide his real feeling, "She may not love me after all, Ottilie, for I have not asked her; and upon my soul when I think of doing so, I wonder at my presumption in supposing such a blessed possibility."

"How can you doubt it, Philip? Why, her love is as plain to be seen as yours; clear as the sun at noonday. She reminds me of Coleridge's Genevieve. Go tell her some tender love-tale; she would forget and fling herself into your arms as naively as the poet's pretty maiden did."

He shook his head doubtingly, and began to look very solemn. As he lifted me from the carriage, when we reached our own court-yard, I whispered to him gayly, "Have courage, and, like Montrose,

"put it to the touch,

And win or lose it all.'"

He did straightway. This evening he came to me triumphant. When he told the dear girl of his love and asked her to be his wife, she rose from her seat, stood frankly before him, rested her two little hands in his, and when he put his arms around her, she buried her glowing face on his shoulder and wept like a little child.

16

BEGINNING OF THE END.

HAVE been neglecting my journal for quite two weeks; and now I have so much on my heart, that, woman-like, I wish to begin at the end, and tell that which is troubling me most, instead of that which makes me happy. But, soberly and in order.

Philip is married! Yes, married and off. A few days after his pleasant and gratifying acceptance by the Folhams, who showed a very frank satisfaction at having their daughter so "nicely established," as Mrs. Folham said, he received news of the death of an uncle in Germany, his father's eldest brother.

The death of this uncle brings a great deal of business on Philip. He has to go immediately to his father's old home in Saxony, to attend to the family affairs; thence to America, to settle up the business interest which his uncle and father had for many years together there, and which has been hanging half unravelled since the death of Philip's father, owing to the age and ill-health of this uncle. All the heirs look to Philip to settle matters; and he feels himself responsible, as his father's representative, to have the business arranged promptly and advantageously for all parties. But to do this might require a year's absence; and to be separated from Flor