upon a table; all in gilded red morocco
covers.  One of them lay open, and the
evening breeze that entered through the
broken pane of glass had touched some of its
leaves.

"The lovers are a long time absent," whispered
partners to each other, as they danced
their last dance on the grass about the guide-
post.  "If they be lost in the wood, and we have
to go a hunting for them, it will be a pretty midsummer
night's dream."  Shrill whistling and
loud shouting presently grew to be the whole
amusement of the company, and were kept up
until the missing pair appeared.  "But you do
look as if you had been seeing ghosts,"
somebody said to them.  "What are they
like?"

"The nearest thing to a ghost that we
have seen," said Mr. Wenn, "I seized and
brought away with me.  Here it is."  He
took a little book out of his pocket,—a book
bound in red morocco, and beset with
tarnished gilding—which he offered for the
inspection of the company.

"Why, what fruit is this to bring out of
an oak-wood!" cried mine host; "a corrupt
French romance!"

The account brought home of the forester's
deserted house, that had been at last
actually seen by an English gentleman and
lady, was in a day or two town news, and
the story to which it belonged, had by
that time been duly fitted to it.  This is
the story:

Conrad Ducker and his daughter one
morning sat at breakfast, many many
years ago.

"You are spoiling my coffee, Gertrude,"
said the forester, a stern dark-looking
man; "your thoughts are astray.  You
have been reading those detestable red
books.  You must get married; be a housewife,
girl."

"I, father?"

"Yes, you.  Peter from beyond the mountain
came to ask for you this morning.  A
husband like that would be good luck for a
princess."

"But I cannot leave you, father, and my
heart is in the forest.  I should not like
marrying into the open land."

"One may breathe the more freely in
the open land, girl; though for that I
wouldn't leave the forest.  Let it pass.
Marry Gottfried Schluck, who lives close by,
and has gone down on his knees to you five
times over."

"He has been married twice, father; and
no man loves a second wife."

"Bah! " said the huntsman, scowling
suddenly upon his daughter's face.  "As you
live, tell me the truth, Gertrude!  What made
you spoil my coffee?"

"Father!"

"What were your thoughts?"

"Nothing,—at least foolish.—I was thinking
only of this stocking that I am about, because
it is so difficult to match my colours well, and
I am tired of red and green."

The old man suddenly rose, and said, "The
count will be here to-day or to-morrow,
Gertrude."

The girl's cheeks flushed as she replied, "I
know it."

"How, girl, how?"

"Francis, father, brought me word he was
to come on St. Egidius' day."

"Ay, does he so," murmured the forester,
pacing the room, thoughtfully; "he comes on
St. Egidius' day."

"I have made his bed," the girl said, "and
lighted his fire.  Arnold helped me.  But Arnold
does not treat me as a little girl now, father,
and you"—

Again the old man stopped with a stern
face before her to ask, "What were your
thoughts, then, Gertrude?"

"When, father?"

"When you spoilt my coffee."

"Oh father," she replied, sobbing.  "You
are too hard to me.  You know that this is
Egidius' day, and nineteen years ago my
mother died, as you have set down in the
Bible.  And I thought how it was that she
should die of a Shot, and you never speak of it,
and you even forbid me to speak of it to others."

The fixed glow of the old man's eyes upon
her checked the girl's utterance.  Silently he
turned to take from the wall his cap and gun,
then returning to her, drew her towards him,
and said, in a hoarse voice, "Hear me,
child; I will believe you, and it is well.  Do
not be eager for that story; it is not good for
your ears or for my ears.  Why return to
that?  It lies deep, and the grass grows thick
above it.  There might come up with it stuff
that would sting you—that would take away
your sight and hearing.  Only mind this.
You think too much of—somebody who
should be as far from you as sun from
moon, from whom you should fly as the
hare from the wild cat.  I tell you, girl, he is
false.  He would betray you as surely as
to-morrow comes after to-day.  If you have
done already more than think of him, God
pity you, for"—the man's utterance was
choked; his bony hand was cold and damp—
"you would be better with a millstone round
your neck, under ten feet of water."  He
turned suddenly away, whistled to his dog,
and left her.

Gertrude had never seen her father's
gloom so terrible: but she soon found a girl's
relief in tears.  The forester went out into
the wood, and sat for a long time motionless
upon a grave-like mound of stones under an
oak-tree, his gun resting on his shoulder, his
dog's nose thrust inquiringly beneath his
arm.  He sat there till twilight, and went
slowly homeward when the moon was rising.
From the terrace behind the house he by
chance raised his eyes towards a lighted
window in the corner of the tower.  There
was a light burning in the room, a fire