too, under her brow. But it is needless to form conjectures: none knew in what that expression originated-there was a mystery in it. She had a long thin arm and tapering fingers, and a hand crossed by many a blue vein. Its touch was, in general, thrillingly cold, yet at times it was feverishly hot. Her mother had borne many a child, but they had all died in infancy. The father's fondest wish was to see a son rising by his side into manhood, nor did he yet despair of having the wish gratified. It was said, his dying commands would have given that son much to do.

Paulina was now thirteen; but the canker was busy within, and even her mother saw at last that she, too, was to be taken from her. It was a stern dispensation; the only child of her heart, the only one whom her sleepless care had been able to fence in from the grasp of the spoiler, -her meditation and her dream for thirteen years,― the one only sad sunbeam whose watery and uncertain ray lighted up their solitude. But evil had followed them as a doom, nor was that doom yet completed.

She died upon an autumn evening. She had been growing weaker for many a day, and they saw it, but spoke not of it. Nor did she; it seemed almost a pain for her to speak; and when she did, it was in a low, soft tone, inaudible almost to all but the ear of affection. Yet was

the mind within her busy with all the restless activity of feverish reverie. She had strange day-dreams; life and the distant world often flashed upon her in far more than the brightness of reality. Often, too, all faded away; and though her eyes were still open, darkness fell around her, and she dwelt among the mysteries and immaterial shapes of some shadowy realm. It would be fearful to know all that passed in the depth of that lonely girl's spirit.—It was an autumn evening-sunny, but not beautiful-silent, but not serene. She had walked to the brook that came down the mountains, and formed a pool and babbling cascade not a stone's cast from the door. Perhaps she grew suddenly faint, for her mother, who stood at the window, saw her coming more hastily than usual across the field. She went to meet her; she was within arms-length, when her daughter gave a faint moan, and, falling forward, twined her cold arms round her mother's neck, and looked up into her face with a look of agony. It was only for a moment; her dark eye became fixed-it grew white with the whiteness of death, and the mother carried her child's body into its desolate home.

If her father wept- it was at night when there was no eye to see. The Hungarian dog howled over the dead body of his young mistress, and the old domestic sat by the unkindled hearth, and

grieved as for her own first-born; but the father loaded his gun as was his wont, and went away among the mountains.

The priests came, and the coffin, and a few of the simple peasants. She was carried forth from her chamber, and her father followed. The procession winded down the valley. The tinkling of the holy bell mingled sadly with the funeral chaunt. At last the little train disappeared; for the churchyard was among the hills, some miles distant. The mother was left alone: she fell upon her knees, and lifted up her eyes and her clasped hands to her God, and prayed — fervently prayed from the depths of her soul-that He might never curse her with another child. The prayer was almost impious; but she was frantic in her deep despair, and we dare not judge her.

A year has passed away, and that lonely house is still in the Bohemian valley, and its friendless inmates haunt it still. Walstein's wife bears him another child, and hope almost beats again in his bosom, as he asks, with somewhat of a father's pride, if he has now a son? But the child was a daughter, and his hopes were left unfulfilled. They christened the infant Paulina; and many a long day and dreary night did its mother hang over its cradle and shed tears of bitterness, as she thought of her who lay unconscious in the churchyard among the hills. The babe grew, but not in

the rosiness of health. Yet it seldom suffered from acute pain; and when it wept, it was with a kind of suppressed grief, that seemed almost unnatural in one so young. It was long ere it could walk; when at last it did, it was without any previous effort.

Time passed on without change, and without incident. Paulina was ten years old. Often had Philippa, with maternal fondness, pointed out to her husband the resemblance which she alleged existed between their surviving child and her whom they had laid in the grave. Walstein, as he listened to his wife, fixed his dark penetrating eye upon his daughter, and spoke not. The resemblance was, indeed, a striking one, it was almost supernatural. She was the same tall, pale girl, with black, deep-sunk eyes, and long, dark, ebon hair. Her arms and hands were precisely of the same mould, and they had the same thrilling coldness in their touch. Her manners, too, her disposition, the sound of her voice, her motions, her habits, and above all, her expression of countenance-that characteristic and indescribable expression-were the very same. Her mother loved to dwell upon this resemblance; but her father, though he gazed and gazed upon her, yet ever and anon started, and walked with hasty strides across the room, and sometimes, even at night, rushed out

into the darkness, as one oppressed with wild and fearful fancies.

They had few of the comforts, and none of the luxuries of life, in that Bohemian valley. Philippa had carefully laid aside all the clothes that belonged to her dead daughter; and now that the last child of her age was growing up, and was so like her that was gone, she loved to dress her sometimes in her sister's dress, and the pale child wore the clothes, and would talk to her of the lost Paulina, almost as if to one who had known her.

One night her mother plied her needle beside her lamp, and at a little distance her daughter, in a simple white dress which had once been her dead sister's, sat musing over the red embers of a dying fire. A thunder storm was gathering, and the rain was already falling heavily. Walstein entered; his eye rested on his daughter, and at the same moment he uttered an exclamation of horror: but he recovered himself, and with a quivering lip sat down in a distant corner of the room. His Hungarian dog was with him; it seemed to have caught the direction of his master's eye, and as its own rested keenly on Paulina, the animal gave vent to a low growl. It was strange that the dog never seemed to love the child. On the present occasion she was probably not aware of her father's entrance, for she appeared absorbed in her own thoughts; and as the