portion of their capital, and no more, to
rendering available the talent of the
ingenious man.

SHOT THROUGH THE HEART.

I HAVE a tale to tell, with a true German
flavour, of a huntsman of the olden time, and
of the ringing of a shot in the recesses of a
forest.  It is a tale taken from the lips of the
people, and it may be true.  I have its kernel
from a German writer, Edmund Hoefer.

From village to town, and back from town
to village—no matter where—the narrow footpath
runs at one end through smooth meadows,
then descends into a wide hollow, of which the
whole sweep is filled with a glorious old
wood; but, at the other end, the path runs
through the standing corn.  From village to
town, or back from town to village, men,
women, and children, hurry through the
wood.  No trodden grass betrays feet that
have been truant from the beaten path.  Not
far from the bottom of the hollow there is an
open space in the dense forest, and the trees
on one side stand apart as if at the entrance to
a narrow avenue.  But the avenue is no path
now, if it ever were one.  It is choked up with
underwood, matted with brambles and wild
vines, and the narrow footway strikes
directly across the forest lawn of grass and
flowers in the little open glade; there is no
sign of wavering in any wayfarer—no turning
aside to be detected.  There was assuredly
another path here once, for here there was
set up a guide-post, useless for such purpose
now, and overgrown with ivy; one of its three
directing boards being destroyed, or having
rotted off, it looks like a rude cross set up in
the forest, and the peasants of the district—
though they are by this time all good Protestants—
look up at it with a prayerful ejaculation
as they hurry by.

A party of English travellers dwelt for a
few days in the adjacent town, and soon
discovered that the grand old forest oaks were
good to dine under.  They knew generally
that the place was accursed and was believed
to harbour spectres if not worse
things.  Before this generation was born, a
lord of the castle had gone suddenly abroad,
and his lady mother who remained at home
had cursed the forest and permitted no
wood to be felled, no labour to be done, in it.
This curse the family kept up, and except use
of the necessary paths, the forest had been
for almost a century untouched by man.
It was the more luxuriant for that, and the
smooth plot of grass in which the guide-post
stood, with broad boughs and blue sky above,
were floor and ceiling, as it seemed, to the
best of picnic dining-rooms.

Only their own servants went with the
holiday makers, who had dined well and were
dancing merrily when first the shadows on
the turf began perceptibly to lengthen.  The
few rustics who came to and fro upon the
path, had, all day long, looked more or less
aghast at their proceedings.  The last who had
passed by, even presumed to stop, and urge
that they would return home before twilight
closed.  The wood, he said, is never safe for
Christian men, and evil things lie yonder.
His hand waved hurriedly towards the ancient
avenue, and he stepped on apace, for he
had been venturesome in making any halt
at all.

"Why, there is a full moon to-night," said
Clara Hough, one of the party; "the best of the
picnic is to come.  If any fairies should appear
we'll join our dance to theirs, and as for ghosts,
I should like to see one!  Is this one of their
walking-days?  What says the calendar?"
"It is the Feast of St. Egidius," said Mr.
Eustace Wenn, who hoped, in due time, to
convert Miss Hough into Mrs. Wenn.  "St.
Egidius' day is nothing in particular.  Of
course we shall go home by moonlight, but I
vote for an adventure.  Let us break open that
pathway and find out the demon of the wood.
Something, of course, lies yonder.  Who joins
the exploring party?"  Women and men too
grow superstitious in the twilight, wise as
they may be.  There were no volunteers.
"My dear fellow," said the host, "join our
next dance.  The path you see, is impervious."

Mr. Wenn leapt among the trees and
shouted back intelligence that it was easy
with one pair of hands to cut a way there
even for a lady.  "Then," said Miss Hough,
following his lead, "by all means let us go."
"Let them alone;" said the host; "they are
lovers, and they would not thank us for our
company."  The dance, therefore, was formed
and the young people went alone into the
wood.

The green leaves, the gleams of sunset
colouring, the twittering of birds above, the
moss and flowers underfoot, the pleasant
exercise of fighting down such obstacles as
thorns and tendrils offered, the young gentleman
smoothing the way for the young lady,
as he hoped to smooth her way on other
paths when she was an older lady and they
travelled over years of life that seemed
to be before them—all such things made the
little expedition as agreeable as might have
been desired.  There was another small
break in the wood, and a broader avenue of
smooth turf pierced the trees beyond it.
Upon a hillock of large mossy stones that
seemed at one time to have been assembled
there together by an idle man, the lovers sat
to rest and talk, for five minutes or longer, of
their own affairs.  The gentleman spoke
most; the lady looked much downward, and
trifled with her little foot among the
moss upon one stone larger than the others,
"Why, there is a great cross, and there are three
unreadable letters scratched upon this stone!"
said she.  "The first, I think, is a G.  Let
us go on, let us go on!  This heap is shapen,
I think, like a grave.  Or shall we go back?
I have a dread upon me."  But the way