Chapter III: Part 3

Sorrow paced so lightly across the snow that she scarcely left a trace, as though she were borne by the sharp east wind, whose pungent tongue mocked the fine winter morning. She went through the most aristocratic streets, and vanished into one of the stateliest houses; entering so softly that no one noticed her, not even the servants, who were stretching themselves on red cushioned divans in the entrance hall; not even the parrot that always cried, "Canaille! Canaille!" and made a wise face. She went up the broad stairs, where everything was perfumed of fir-trees, straight towards a high door, whence the laughter of youthful voices resounded. Unnoticed she stood in the high large room through whose many windows the sun streamed, touching the white-covered, long tables, on which still lay all the presents given the night before. At one end of the room stood three tall fir-trees, their branches bent under a gay weight, and round about the room some thirty smaller ones. The six huge chandeliers were encircled with garlands of fir and chains of glass balls, and from one to the other hung rows of colored paper lamps. It must have looked quite fairy-like in the evening with all the candles alight. Amidst this glory two tall slim, supple figures, in dark, close-fitting, cloth dresses, were playing battledore and shuttlecock. Every movement was of rare grace, and the delicate profiles with the dark arched eyebrows, stood out well against the somber firs. The gold brown hair of the one hung in voluptuous waves over her shoulders, only held together by a ribbon; a weight of fair plaits hung down the neck of the other. Their heads thrown backwards revealed faultlessly set necks and laughing rows of pearly teeth. It was a sight for gods, and the young man who looked on thought so, as he sat in Olympian calm carelessly reading in an armchair, dressed in an elegant morning suit, a cigarette in his ring-covered hand. From time to time, in a powerful baritone, he hummed some rather frivolous songs that each time drew down on him a storm of laughing reproaches.

"I beg my stern cousins to remark," he said, "that the ball has now fallen fourteen times to the ground, and that I consequently regret that my proposal was negatived that each such miss should be punished with a kiss."

The girls laughed, but suddenly they noticed Sorrow, who looked on seriously at their merriment, like a distant hail-cloud at a harvest home.

"Who are you?" both girls asked at once, approaching their strange guest.

Sorrow would fain have cast down her eyes that she might not look at the three young heads in that room; but she saw them, and felt herself spellbound. She looked at all three, and then said in her soft, deep tones--

"I have just come from a house where since yesterday no one has eaten, where this night a child has died, and a girl lies sick in bed; two other children I found out in the snowstorm as they were admiring a Christmas tree. Can you not help?"

"Yes, yes, at once," cried the one with the gold brown locks. "Albert, be so good as to order the sledge. Cara, do you run to mother and ask her for money. I will get food and clothes."

With all imaginable speed every thing was got ready. After a brief half-hour the sledge stood before the door laden with wood and baskets, and one of the Christmas trees. There was barely room for the three young people to squeeze in. The mother, a stately, elegant woman, with wise eyes, restrained the eldest girl, Doris, for a second, to say something to her very earnestly, upon which she kissed both her hands. Then she, too, flew downstairs after the others, and as fast as the wind they trotted to the house of the poor people.

"Mother, the angels have come," cried the children.

They got out and brought in the tree. Cara knelt down by the hearth and made a fire, and Doris placed the tree by the bedside of the sufferer, darkened the room and lighted it. She gave the children bread and cake, and then the two lovely girls stood by the sick girl's bedside and sang a Christmas carol. The little boy, with folded hands, looked now at the lights, now at the angels, and large tears rolled over his pale face. Albert did not quite know what to do with himself; but now that the two girls helped the mother to warm some soup and cut up meat for the children, he neared the bed, and looked with scrutiny into the black eyes that glowed and reflected with uncanny fire the lights of the Christmas tree.

"What is your name?" he asked kindly with his pleasant voice.

The girl looked at him long and earnestly; she felt the gaze of his beautiful blue eyes burn into her heart. Then she grew red, cast down her eyes, and said: "Lotty."

Soon an animated conversation sprang up between the two. Albert took out his pocket-book, wrote a few lines, and sent off the servant with orders to bring the doctor back in the sledge. They would wait till he came. Doris's eyes rested for an instant on her cousin, who had seated himself on the edge of the bed and talked eagerly to Lotty. Scarcely was the sledge gone than she said--

"There, that will do for to-day; I will walk home. We will come again in a few days, till then you have provision."

And so speaking she walked out of the house, regardless of her cousin's remonstrances.

Next day all looked bright and cheerful in the little room, but grief and pain had entered the palace. Cara had fallen on the ice while skating, and lay in bed maimed in all her limbs, and suffering keenly. Her snow-white hands lay quiescent beside her plaits upon the coverlet. Her father patted them, and the tears ran down his cheeks. Then Cara smiled, but her eyes looked out dim and deep from their hollows, and round her lips there quivered a suppressed sigh. Wearily she dragged on her life for weeks and weeks; but if any one asked Cara how she was, she would always answer kindly--

"I think I am much better."

But pain had pinched her face and emaciated her body, and her hands and feet remained paralyzed. Her only recreation were Albert's visits. He told her all manner of things, and sang her merry songs. Doris grew pale and thin with continued nursing, so that at last her mother had to force her to go out. She bethought her of Lotty, and went to call on her. How amazed was she to find the little house transformed, and Lotty changed more than all! Graceful, rounded in all her limbs, she stepped towards her, and the slight limp that remained from her illness only gave her an added grace. Her eyes had learned to laugh, and her whole being had gained something attractive and bright.

"But, Lotty, how well you look! I was afraid you would think we had forgotten you."

"How could I think that," said Lotty, "when your brother always came to see us!"

"He is not my brother," Doris said shortly, and grew scarlet.

Then ensued an awkward silence, interrupted by Doris, who asked to see the children's school-books, which, superintended by Lotty, bore inspection well. They had gained good instruction in the time that had passed.

A few days after Albert went away on a journey. It was a hard parting for the two girls. At the last he kissed Doris's hand, and looked at her earnestly, deep down into her eyes. They filled with large tears. She wanted to say something more, but could not bring forth a sound.

"I shall come back in the summer," he said, and was gone.

Lotty was soon so well that she could walk and call on Cara, who was so pleased to see her that she did not want to let her go. So she was engaged as companion and nurse for Cara, and soon grew indispensable to her.

In the spring the family moved to their castle in the country, where the poor invalid could lie all day under tall trees. Albert soon came there too, and Doris took long rides with him through the park, or they sat for hours chatting with Cara. Yet he always found time and opportunity to see Lotty alone. At first she was distant with him, but with his heart-winning ways he soon recovered the empire he had had in the little house in the town; and she was happy when he said that the parents insisted on marrying Doris to him, but that he did not think of it for she did not please him at all. Cara noticed that there was something amiss with her Lotty, but she never dreamed what a fight the girl was fighting with her heart, that impetuously demanded love and happiness, and her conscience that recalled to her her duties and strove to calm her.

Doris guessed nothing. She was entirely absorbed in the joy of having her adored Albert beside her.

Albert really loved Lotty, but he did not want to lose the rich marriage with Doris; so he was full of little delicate attentions to her, which in quiet hours were counted up and talked over with Cara. Lotty knew herself to be beloved, therefore her jealousy of Doris knew no bounds. Every kind look, every unconscious little joke of Doris's was gall and wormwood to her. She had to help Doris adorn herself, and see how she looked into the glass with beaming eyes, certain of victory, full of hope. She had to suffer that her adored Cara did all to make her sister appear in the best light to Albert. Many an evening in the park there ensued angry scenes in which Lotty broke forth into wild reproaches, and Albert made passionate love protestations. Lotty was proud; she would be his wife, and at last he promised her that he would marry her as soon as he had found a post that insured enough for them both. He was soon to go abroad to join an embassy.

Lotty demanded that he should say openly at the house that he meant to marry her, but this she could not attain.

Once more Lotty thought--

"If only I were rich, like the others."

Many a long night she tossed about her black locks on the pillow, and next day her eyes glowed like coals, so that Albert grew almost afraid, and feared she might make things uncomfortable for him. He hurried forward his parting preparations. On the last evening he was in the park with Doris, and began to speak to her of his future, and that he should come back a made man. Then he would woo her, and he hoped he should not be refused. At the last he put a bracelet round her wrist, encircled her with his arm and pressed a kiss on her lips. Doris flushed all over, ran off to Cara, fell on her knees beside the bed, kissed her hands, her hair, her eyes, and was so wildly happy that it grew almost too much for the poor invalid. When Albert wanted to leave the park Lotty stood before him and looked at him so sphinx-like that he grew afraid. He hoped she had heard nothing, and took a step forward. But she struck him in the face with her fist. Then she vanished. She ran as fast as she could into her room, and raved all night long, bit her pillow, and thought to die of rage and despair.

Albert, who slept little, could not see Lotty again and extort from her a promise of silence. Twice he knocked at her door, but she kept quiet till he had gone and then she muttered curses after him. Next morning he departed without having seen her. Doris waved her hand after him long, long after he was out of sight, and wept blissful tears. But Cara was alarmed when she saw Lotty. A complete alteration had come to her face; it was as though something had snapped. She had to endure hearing Albert talked of incessantly. Towards Doris she felt a veritable hatred.

At first there came letters from Albert, but they grew rarer and briefer. After a year there came none. Doris had been radiantly happy some time and developed to rare beauty. At her side Hope stood shimmering, rosy, like peach blossoms. By Cara's bed sat Mother Patience, invisible to all, and transfigured the pale face with her calm presence. Beside Lotty strode Envy and Hate, and tugged at her with all their might night and day. In the second year Hope vanished from beside Doris; in the third, the girl crept wearily through the house as though each step were leaden. Lotty revived; yes, Doris even noted that when Lotty combed her hair she could see in the glass how her black eyes sparkled maliciously, and seemed to search her weary face. Doris's parents grew old and gray during these years of waiting. Albert's name was never breathed, it was as though he was blotted out of all their memories, and yet all thought only of him.

One morning Doris was sitting at breakfast with her parents. Cara was still in bed, she was never carried down till later in the day. The father read out of his paper, his wife rested her chin on her slender fingers. Countless fine lines had become graven into her face, Care was her daily guest; yet she looked kindly from under her gray hairs and her elegant cap. Secretly her glance sought the face of her daughter, who had leaned back wearily in her chair, toying with a flower and gazing out vacantly into space.

Sometimes she would look out of the window, and watch with heavy eyelids the falling of the faded autumn leaves, which sank to earth in the thick mist. A fire burnt in the chimney; it was the only lively thing in the room. Then a letter was brought in and given to Doris's father. He twirled it between his fingers and looked at the address and seal. Doris had glanced up indifferently. Suddenly every muscle of her face trembled, and she rested large, flashing eyes upon her father, her nostrils quivered, and her breath came short and fast.

"Oh, father, read, read quickly!"

He read long, long, without speaking one word. At last he folded up the letter. Doris's torture was at an end, she was near to faint.

"Albert is coming," he said gravely, and would have gone on speaking, but from Doris's breast there came a cry of mingled joy and sobbing. She sprang up, embraced her mother and rushed out of the room and up the stairs to Cara.

"Cara, he is coming, is coming," she cried, and covered her sister with kisses.

Lotty rushed to the bedside; it was as though a fallen angel looked at the happy girl. At last harshly and roughly she muttered--

"Who knows what he has become."

Doris felt the poisoned dart, but before she could answer her mother called her down. As she entered the room she saw her father pacing up and down restlessly. He did not notice her. Her mother sat in a little armchair beside the fire, staring into the embers. Doris noticed every thing at a glance. It was as though something heavy and cold fell upon her heart.

"Come here, dear child," said her mother; "kneel down here, I have something to say to you. You have always trusted us, have you not, my child? You always believed that we have felt your sufferings too, and have felt them the more that we could not help you?"

Doris could not speak, she kissed her mother's hand and looked at her again with large, glowing eyes.

"If, then, I tell you that Albert is not worthy of you, my child will believe it, will she not? He has not kept good; it is said he has gambled away his fortune, and we should not like him to ask the hand of our daughter merely in order to pay his debts. I know you will be proud and meet him as it becomes your maidenly dignity. You will let him see nothing of your soul's combat and woe, but meet him as he deserves."

"When will he come?" said Doris, curtly. Her voice was hard.

"In a few days; we cannot forbid him the house for his mother's sake. I count on you, my child."

Doris's eyes flashed. She raised herself and stood her full height; she seemed to have grown, and looked defiant, ready for fight. Without a word she went outside into the mist. She paced the park for hours, heedless of the paths and ways; she painted to her mind that meeting, how cold and proud she would be. She snapped off the twigs as she passed, and crunched them with her white teeth. It seemed to her as though she never could go home, as though she must thus rove the wood for ever. When she came back to the house at last, her hair, dress, and eyebrows were covered with glistening drops. She looked into the glass that reflected her hard-drawn face.

"The wood," she said, "has had pity on me; those are its tears."

She could not make up her mind to go in to Cara; she felt as though she could not bear her affection. Cara wept in her father's arms. He dried the tears she was shedding for her sister, and spoke to her tenderly. Lotty clenched her fists.

"She shall not have him as long as I live."

Henceforward Doris went often into the wood, especially along the path beside the old willow-trees. The sun still shone warmly there, and that did good to Doris, who could not get rid of a feeling of cold. Once she leaned exhausted against a mighty trunk; she had laid her hand upon her aching heart, and closed her eyes. Suddenly she heard a voice close by her, whose tone made her shrink together as a flower does in spring rain--

"Doris."

And there stood Albert, with the same lovely eyes, the same charm of movement, and yet how changed. He held out his hand towards her. She laid her icy fingertips into his; but when she wanted to draw back her hand he retained it.

"Am I to be condemned unheard?" he asked gently, and smiled so sweetly that Doris could not be as distant and cold as she had resolved.

He did not wait for an answer, but spoke eagerly and earnestly, accused and defended himself at the same time, reminded her of their sweet love that could not possibly be vanished and fled; ay, he read it in her face that she had thought of him, while poor Doris, now red, now pale, could merely look at him. When he turned to go to the house and greet his aunt, she remained outside, for an awkward friend, Conscience, told her that she had not been all that her parents expected.

They did not repeat their injunction, and the meetings in the park grew more and more frequent; a correspondence even ensued that was intrusted to a hollow willow. Doris's mother noticed a strange, wild look in the girl's eyes, but she put this down to the struggle her child was undergoing.

Often Doris would have opened her lips to confess, but always closed them again. Daily she grew more irritable, spoke in hollow tones, and laughed at every thing. Lotty knew exactly all that went on. She bided her time, ready to spring like a cat whenever the hour should be ripe. One day Doris could not get out, and so begged Lotty, in a seemingly indifferent tone, to carry a letter to the tree. Lotty held the letter between her fingers and looked now at it, now at Doris.

"Well," said Doris, sharply, but without looking up, "is it inconvenient to you?"

"No," said Lotty, carelessly, went towards the door, and then came back beside Doris.

"I shall only carry that letter," she said, "after I have told you what manner of man your lover is."

Lotty looked so fierce that Doris shuddered.

"He loved me, me, long before he loved you: me he has kissed many hundred times in this very park ere ever he gave you the one that made you so happy; me he promised to wed. It is me he called his dear heart, his love, all the soft names he has called you; and on the evening you were betrothed to him, I hit him in his face, and now he is so vile that no decent girl would wish to have him; and you, you carry on a secret love affair with him."

Doris grew giddy; but before she had taken in the full sense of these words, Lotty had left the room and did not re-appear.

The following evening, when Lotty had just got into bed, Doris stood before her like a ghost. She shook her arms and said--

"Come!"

She followed Doris into her room. The girl shut and locked the door, and pocketed the key.

"Now tell it me all again," she said, speaking with effort.

Lotty no longer felt the satisfaction she had experienced that first moment. She was ashamed of her weakness, and told her tale with hesitation and with reserve. While she did so she had ever to look at Doris, who grew momentarily more haggard, and who bent herself twice, thrice; whether in physical or mental pain Lotty did not know. Suppressing a low moan, she drew a small roll of paper from her pocket, and smiled with trembling lips.

"You have avenged yourself on me; now is your turn with him; you owe me this, for you should have spared me this agony. To-morrow morning you go to town and give him this; you yourself must give it to him; I demand it."

Scarcely had Doris uttered these words than she began to moan piteously, and now followed a night during which Lotty was terrified by the sufferings of her young mistress. Constantly she tried to get the key and call the family; Doris would not let her.

"No," she said; "we two must pass this night alone together."

Only when consciousness began to leave her, Lotty succeeded in wrenching the key from her clenched hands. She called up the parents, who arrived but in time to receive their daughter's last breath. She opened her eyes once again, knew her mother, kissed each of her fingertips and whispered--

"Farewell, mother; farewell, forgive me."

Then a last terrible spasm shook her, and when the sun rose she was a corpse. While the parents were with Cara, trying to break the news gently to the poor invalid, Lotty slipped away into her own room. There she unrolled the paper and read--

"Could I have believed in you, I should have lived.--DORIS."

Then she set out for the town and sought out Albert, who was still in bed sleeping restlessly. Lotty looked at him long and severely. Her gaze was so savage that a feeling of fear shot through him and woke him. He started up.

"What is it?" he cried aghast.

Lotty handed him the paper without speaking a word, and before he had unfolded it she had gone.

He threw on his clothes and hurried after her, but he could not find her. He ran about all day: he hovered round the castle, he chased through the park. He looked as though the Furies pursued him. At last he went home, sat down to his desk, and began to turn over a pile of dirty papers. Great drops stood on his brow. In the evening he went to see a friend, and gambled the whole night. In a short time he had won large sums, but then a few days after he lost them all again, those and much more besides. One morning he tottered into his room, loaded a pistol and shot himself.

Lotty got home unnoticed as she had gone out; but as she entered Sorrow stood in front of her, and her eyes were so terrible that Lotty fell down before her on the earth and covered her face with her hands. But when Sorrow began to speak, Lotty was seized with trembling at the stern words that fell upon her like hammer blows; she writhed on the ground like a worm, but Sorrow was inexorable.

"You have done your work well," she said; "you have avenged yourself. But on whom? On those who have done you kindness from the first hour when they raised you out of misery and wretchedness, those to whom you owe all--your life, your health--who have treated you as a child and a sister. They were happy before I brought them to your house, and what are they now? I know you want to throw yourself into the water, but I will not suffer it, for you need a whole long life to make good the thoughts that have poisoned your youth. You must give up your whole strength to poor Cara, beside whose bed you will yet often see me, and take care that you need not tremble before my face, as you must to-day. Cara needs you, for her parents are broken down, and only through boundless self-sacrifice may you dare to hope for forgiveness. As yet I cannot accord it."

Once more it was Christmas Eve. A beautiful tree was alight in the little house. Lotty had brought it there in Cara's name. The children had red cheeks and shouted joyously. The mother too had grown to look younger and smiled often. Only Lotty was pale as death and dark as remorse.

"Here my mother looks at me," she thought; "and thinks Lotty has grown bad; and there Doris's mother looks at me and thinks, 'Had you but called me we could have saved the child.' Oh that I had starved to death!"

In the castle a shaded lamp burnt beside Cara's bed. Her father was reading to her with weary voice, the mother sat by, stroked the girl's hands, and dried the heavy, slow-falling tears that rolled down her child's face with a soft handkerchief. Cara had not spoken all the evening. Only once she asked--

"Is not this Christmas Eve?"

_MEDUSA._

Medusa.

The waters tossed and foamed through the huge rocks that were pressed so close together that up amid the heights a strip of blue sky was scarcely to be seen. Upon a narrow slippery path, alongside the oozy rocky walls, ran Sorrow, as fast as though the path were sure and the surroundings a flowery meadow. The rushing waters threatened every moment to ingulf her. Their thunder, repeated by a thousand echoes, seemed to grow yet louder, and sounded so menacing as though the audacious pilgrim must turn back before them. But with burning cheeks Sorrow hurried onwards, and her long black hair floated behind her like a somber cloud. Her nostrils quivered, her lips opened and shut, with outstretched arms she whispered or called something, but the sound died away before it was spoken. Her eyes stared into space as though she would search the depths, and yet they had fain be cast down, for the gorge narrowed and the last trace of a path was inundated by the water. Beneath her surged a whirlpool, above her rushed the water, rushed down in ever new masses; now it sounded like song, now like moaning voices, now like pealing thunder. One moment she halted, then she raised her thin skirts and began to wade through the water where the rocks had quieted it a little and scooped out a place large enough for her small feet. With one hand she held herself against the rocky wall and looked from time to time into the depths where yawned the opening of a cavern. At the risk of death she reached the entrance and stood still a second, breathing deeply. Once more her gaze eagerly swept the sides of the cliffs; there was no projection on which to gain a footing, no bird could have stood there. Out of the cavern's mouth there gushed water, and it too offered no road. One more look did she cast back, then she resolutely entered the cave and groped through it in the dark, along the wet stones. Often she sank deep into the waters. When she lost sight of the last sheen of daylight she resolved to wade, and did not feel in the icy cold of the water how the stones cut her feet. At last a red spot gleamed. She thought it was the daylight outside the cavern. Then the space enlarged. In this impenetrable darkness there was a huge vault adorned with columns and capitals and ornaments of all kinds. Darting lights and shades quivered through the hall, which re-echoed with the sound of weeping and moaning. It was a confusion of sobbing women, whimpering children, groaning, sighing men, and every flash of light seemed to increase the misery. Sorrow pressed her hands upon her breast and panted. She was so dazzled that at first she could not see whence these lightnings came; the horrible sounds about her made her giddy. She leaned against one of the shining columns and shading her eyes with her hand, sought to follow the water-course and so discover the exit. There she beheld a colossal man, as tall, rough, and angular as the columns around. His ardent eyes were fixed on her. In his hand he held the lightnings, which from time to time he threw across the cave like fiery arrows or blue snakes.

"Come here, little Sorrow," he called in a voice of thunder. "Have you found your way to me? Come here, for you are mine."

Sorrow clung to the pillar against which she leaned and seized one of its pendent points. Pale as death, she glared at the monster who beckoned to her.

"I will not come to you," she said at last. "I do not know you. I seek for Peace whom I saw go in here, and I am hurrying after him. Oh," she cried, and wrung her hands; "oh, have you hidden him here, or perchance killed him, you terrible man?"

"I am Pain. Peace is not here, but beyond this cave, in the happy valley."

"Show me the exit that I may follow him;" and Sorrow sank down on her knees imploringly.

The fearful man laughed, and his laughter was louder than the rushing and thundering of the waters, more terrible than the sound of moaning round about.

"No, child; you and I, we do not belong to the happy valley, and the exit thither is barred to us by the weepers who fill this cave, and who are our victims. We two belong together. You shall be my wife, and we will seek a spot to fix our dwelling."

"Your wife!"

The words came from Sorrow's breast like a cry, but they were drowned in laughter. Then she darted up and turned to fly. But her arm was seized in such a grip that she thought it would break, and Pain swung his lightnings over her head.

"If ever you flee from me," he roared, "one of these shall fall on you, and what you will then feel will be so horrible that crushed, burnt, tortured, you will scarcely be able to moan like these wretches. I will show them to you."

He lifted the hand that held the lightnings and illuminated the whole space. No human words can tell what fearful forms filled it. Of every age and sex stricken ones lay around. They wound themselves in agony, they lacerated themselves with their fists, they clawed the stones and with the nails of their hands and feet tried to raise themselves. Horrid wounds were held under the falling drops to cool them. Women writhed in eternal birth-throes and could not bring forth; children beat their heads sore against the rocky walls to overpower the pain that gnawed their entrails. Many lay on their knees and wrung their hands and beat their breasts in unextinguishable remorse. Others lay motionless, as though dead, only their eyes moved slowly in their sockets, following the direction of the light. Sorrow veiled her face and tottered; Pain caught her in his arms and pressed her to his breast.

"As great as are these agonies, so great is my love," he said.

Sorrow wept passionately.

"How could you think Peace could be yours. You have nothing in common with him. You are mine; you belong to me. I have loved you in your deeds without beholding you; your traces delighted my eyes."

He drew her hands away from her face and kissed her. Sorrow closed her eyes that she might not see him, but under her dark lids tears welled forth, which he kissed away.

"Weep, weep, my little maid; your tears are dew, far fairer than your laughter, they refresh and cheer me."

She tried to get loose from him, but he held her with his iron grasp.

"If you are afraid here," he said, "I will bear you to a sweet spot and win you there with violence."

He hastily raised the trembling maiden in his arms, threw a lightning in front of him that traced a line of light along the whole dark passage, and wading through the waters that seemed to retreat from his feet, he hurried to the cavern's mouth. He bore her past the waterfall, and when he let her glide to earth, he took hold of her hand, as though he feared she would escape him. She often looked back and tried to think of the happy valley, but to her mental vision there ever appeared only the cave with its desperate inhabitants. She hoped the terrible man might grow weary, and then if sleep overcame him, she could flee; therefore she complained of fatigue. But Pain was never weary; he instantly carried her again, and went onwards yet faster.

"Be happy," he said, "for now at least some one carries you."

She turned her head away from his gleaming eyes. Then a great sense of weakness came over her, and it seemed to her as though they were going backwards, as though the rushing of the river came ever nearer, as though his eyes pierced her breast. Powerless to speak or move, she lay in the arms of Pain. Oh, where--where was her brother Death, who could have freed her? Where her father Strife? He would have wrestled with her captor. Or was he too powerless against this all-mighty Pain? She would have prayed the river, the trees, the grasses to help her, but they did not see her need. At last she lost consciousness, and when she woke she lay under a rock amid deep hot sand--no tree, no song of bird, no murmur of waters; only sand, yellow burning sand and golden air that quivered in the heat.

"My wife," said Pain, and his eyes burnt like the sand and the air, and seemed to drain Sorrow's life blood. Her tears began to flow anew.

"Oh! how thirsty I am," she moaned.

Pain looked at her with satisfaction.

"Well," he said, "was it not beautiful in that cool gorge, so near to the cold foaming river? Do you recall how clear it was, and how it gushed out of the rocks? It came from the happy valley, that is so full of luscious fruits, fruits such as you have never beheld. Shall I show it you?"

At his words Sorrow's eyes had grown ever bigger, her lips more parched.

"Yes, yes," she panted, and behold, away, across the sand, there shimmered in the air a broad stream, and beside it were shady trees laden with fruits. Without knowing what she did, Sorrow sprang up and ran to the river as fast as she could, through the deep sand, under the scorching sunbeams. But the river seemed to retreat ever further from her, and at last it had vanished. At the same moment Pain laughed behind her, and it sounded as though the whole desert laughed.

"Do you now see that you are wholly in my power; you can even only think as I will. Here is water."

He showed her a few trees that overshadowed a well. Sorrow fell down beside it and drank eager draughts. Then she sank into a deep sleep. When she woke the trees were withered, the well dried up, and there was again nothing but sand as far as the eye could reach.

"Do you see," said Pain, "we are stronger than the sun and the desert wind; all must vanish before our might. Wherever we have passed pestilence has broken out, towns and villages are burnt; and where we set up our dwelling the earth grows a desert."

Sorrow wrung her hands. She sprang up and hurried forward. A whole long day she sped on, on, and did not see that he followed. At evening he came towards her and laughed, and laughed so long that the whole desert grew noisy, and hyenas and jackals began to howl, and lions approached roaring. But Pain held them in check with his look of fire, so that they only walked round them from afar off all the night. When day dawned the wild beasts withdrew.

"Oh," said Sorrow, "I die of fear. Take me away from here, wherever you will, only away from this heat, these horrid beasts."

"Do you want coolness, love? You shall have it."

He took her in his arms and bore her fast as the wind towards the north, ever further, past the homes of men, past fields and cities, across the ocean, which he waded through, up to the North. There lay a lovely islet, and birches shook their tender foliage in the fresh breezes.

"Here we will found our happy valley," said Pain, and beckoned.

And as he beckoned the wind blew colder and sharper, the grass crackled under his feet as it withered and froze, and from the ocean there neared crystal mountains that came closer and closer to the land, and the wind that drove them to shore howled dismally. Soon the whole air was filled with snow that whirled from above, from below, from all sides, choking like fine sand. Ice-blocks were piled upon ice-blocks, there was much thundering and crackling, but at last all was still, wrapped in snow and awful silence. The transparent rocks stared up to the heavens like frozen joy. Pain flung a lightning dart into the ice. It bored a blue-green glistening cave in which he laid Sorrow.

"Do you stay here and rest," he said; "I will search for a verdant spot. But do not stir from here, for out of the ice-fields you will never find your road back to the happy valley."

Scarcely had he gone than Sorrow felt her frozen blood revive, and the terrible woe in her breast seemed to yield. First she leaned on her hand and peeped out, then she knelt and breathed on her numbed fingers, then she stepped outside. There towered blocks of ice; here snow was spread in endless extent. She knew that the snow covered the island and the ice-blocks the sea, and it was over the ice-blocks she must wander, for otherwise she could not get across it. She began to slip through the cracks and crevices, to jump from one block to another, following the sunbeams that alone marked a track for her. She did not rest when night came for fear she should be pursued. Twice she went round the island without knowing it, in her senseless fear; but at last the sun led her out of the ice-bound world and across the first green blades of grass. Then she sank down for very weariness. How she found her road back to the mountain gorge she never knew. She entered it trembling. If he was already here, he from whom she had fled, then she was lost. After her wanderings upon the ice, this road seemed to be quite easy, and her fearful glances around were not directed to the masses of water that poured down yet more wildly than when she had first come here, and which seemed to threaten her tender form at every moment, as though they would sweep her away like a leaf. Trembling in every limb, and with chattering teeth, Sorrow entered the dreadful cave.

It was dark, and the confusion of voices sounded painfully through the vaults. Suddenly she felt herself surrounded on all sides, and held by her hands and clothes.

"I will not let you go before you liberate me," a voice sounded at her ear.

"Give me back happiness," moaned another.

"Make me well again," cried a third.

"We are but echoes of the woes of earth," they cried; "but you shall hear us, though you stay here forever."

"But I cannot help you," wailed Sorrow.

"Yes," they shrieked; "you can bring woe, but you will not free us. Revenge! revenge!"

And Sorrow felt herself pressed against the angular columns, and in the noise that clamored round her, she heard--

"Bind her, bind her, tear out her heart. Blind the eyes of her who has brought so much woe."

In her fear she cried--

"Beware what you do, Pain comes behind me, and terrible will be his revenge if you hurt a hair of my head."

Then she forced a road for herself and ran on, on to the spot where she fancied was the outlet She groped a long while along the dripping walls, but just as she had found it, she felt herself held anew, and a voice said--

"And what will Pain do to you if you flee thither? Kiss me, or I will betray you."

"Do not kiss him, his face is quite mutilated," called another voice.

"I will betray you," was whispered into her ear. "I will hold you fast until Pain comes. Kiss me."

Sorrow bent down trembling, and touched a hideous mass with her delicate lips; then she freed herself shuddering, and fled on again along the dark passage. She had to bend nearly double, it grew so low. She dipped her hand in the water and washed her face. It seemed to her as if she never advanced, as if she would never reach the end. At last there shone a bright spot that slowly grew larger. There, yes, there, gleamed the dear sun; there must be the happy valley. But how, if Peace, whom she had sought in vain over the whole earth, were there no longer! But if he were not, she could at least follow in his footsteps, and rest there where he had passed.

Now the outlet of the cave yawned, and Sorrow stood still dazzled. Whatever there was that was fair on earth, whatever could be pictured of power and beauty, was all collected in that valley--luscious greenery, wealth of flowers that covered the earth or crept along the giant trees in lovely garlands, trees that no ax had ever touched, and a singing of birds like heavenly music. A deep green lake reflected all this beauty; deer and gazelles stood around it and drank.

At Sorrow's feet shone strawberries in rich red masses, above her head hovered a bird of paradise, the tip of his golden tail touched her hair.

Suddenly Sorrow heard a voice, at whose tones it seemed to her as though her heart leapt from her mouth. At first it sounded so soft, so full and gentle, like purest melody; then it seemed to retreat. Sorrow held her breath. Now again it came nearer, and at last she could hear the words.

"You are the only maid on earth whom I can love, and you will not stay with me! Is it not fair enough here to please you?"

To whom were these words spoken, for whom the caressing sound of that voice? Sorrow bent back a branch and beheld Peace with his heavenly eyes, calm like a deep lake, and his radiant face of blooming youth. Sorrow was so sunk in contemplation that she forgot herself, her existence, and the sufferings she had endured. Her soul was in her eyes and quaffed eagerly this first refreshment. Then another face came to view. Sorrow at once recognized Work by her bright blue eyes and the waving of her golden locks. She was blushing and tending her sweet lips to Peace. How lovely they both were under the green half shadows of the broad leaves! Sorrow held her breath, the branch trembled in her hand.

"Do not go back to earth," Peace pleaded; "you know what that is like."

"I must, I must," said Work. "I am the comforter in all need, I have dried the tears of even Sorrow herself."

"Oh do not speak of Sorrow here."

"Have you ever beheld her?"

"I have beheld her!" and Peace's eyes grew veiled; "and she destroyed my heaven with her ugly eyes. I have fled from her across the whole world and hidden here from her sight, for through that awful cave she will not come. Her victims will not let her pass, if ever she sets foot in it."

At that instant the poor listener felt herself seized in an iron grasp, and the cry that would have issued from her was stifled by a strong hand. She reeled back through the dark passage, into the cavern in which lightning flamed. Now she was forcibly bound and before her stood Pain in towering passion.

"What shall I do to you, faithless one?" he gnashed.

"Revenge, revenge!" resounded from all sides, and a rain of stones hit the defenseless one.

Sorrow sank on her knees, but Pain raised her.

"No," he said, "she is not to be given over to you, for she must return to earth; but I will return her to earth in such a manner that she shall with unconcern do yet more mischief than heretofore."

He seized Sorrow by her hair and drew her forth relentlessly, away from the howls of the cave which pursued her long.

It was twilight outside; under the rocks it was already night. Sorrow was dragged onwards, she knew not how, she knew not whither. Now she flew up the mountain sides, ever higher, higher, dragged, when her tottering knees would no longer bear her, across bare stones and through thorn-bushes. A fearful storm raged. At last she reached a high mountain top on which there was only room for her foot. Here she stood a second above the dark-threatening mountain forest lashed by the wind, high and free, above the mountains and the clefts, above the firs and the waters, alone in the world. She no longer felt, she did not see Pain who cowered near to her on a rocky ledge and waited. Now he raised his hand and cast lightning upon lightning towards her. From her crown to her feet she felt herself torn and penetrated by these glowing rays.

She silently extended her arms and turned round slowly. As she did so, the last lightning dart pierced through her eyes into her heart, and she fell down, down, deep into the yawning precipice. Pain listened until he heard her fall, and then laughed terribly. The mountains answered his laugh with thundrous voice, the firs bent and broke, the waters stood still a second for fear.

How long Sorrow lay in that abyss none knew, for none asked after her. The firs alone kept watch over the sleeper and whispered dreams to her that she did not hear.

One day strong steps broke the silence, and Courage, his club upon his shoulder, came singing by. He beheld Sorrow as she lay there, her head on a stone, her feet in the water, encircled with her long black hair that had been bathed in blood. He raised the body and rubbed her numb hands.

"Have I got you at last?" he said, "I wanted to find you. You may not die, you must be alive again."

He warmed her in his arms, he revived her with his breath until she opened her eyes.

"Why do you seek me?" she asked in tuneless voice. "I am dead."

"The world misses you, you must wander again. Sin reigns unchecked since you have vanished."

"Let her keep her empire," said Sorrow, and closed her eyes.

Courage shook her.

"It must not be, little sister, you must wander again."

"But I am dead, do you not see? Do you not see that I am burnt?--my brain, my eyes, my heart; leave me alone."

"That does not concern the world whether you wander through it dead or alive, but wander you must. I will not let you go till you do."

He raised her on her feet. She turned and looked at him. He grew pale. Her face was stony, her eyes stony, her hair hung round her rigid and dead.

"Shall I go?" she said, without moving her lips.

"Go," said Courage, "for you all pains are past; you will gaze into the world indifferently, a fearful enemy to Sin."

Sorrow swept her hair from off her marble brow, and tried to collect herself. As memory stirred, her eyes began to flash again; but their light died down almost immediately. Yes, she had grown terrible, as terrible as Pain had desired in his fierce vengeance, as terrible as she needed to be to put a curb on Sin. Poor little Sorrow!

_HEAVENLY GIFTS._

Heavenly Gifts.

The forest gorge was full of the sound of trickling and running waters. A streamlet skipped from rock to rock. Through the dense foliage a sunbeam crept here and there, and changed into a rainbow in the embraces of the waters. Here and there dark little pools formed, upon whose surface floated a withered leaf, until it came too close to the current and vanished, whirling over the nearest waterfall. Huge tree trunks had fallen across the gorge. They were used as bridges by the mosses and climbing plants that overgrew them with exuberant vitality, and hung down from their sides as though they would drink of the waters that murmured beneath. There of a sudden a wondrously white arm stretched forth from out of the climbing plants. In its delicate hand it held a staff of rock crystal with a diamond knob, that flashed and glistened strangely, as though the sun had stepped down to behold itself in the mountain stream. Then fair curls came to view over the confusion of plants that covered the tree trunk; then a rosy face, with large dreamy eyes, now black, now dark blue in color, according to the thoughts that swayed under the cover of its curls. Anon the charming being knelt, and one could see the golden girdle that held the soft garment which clung about her tender form, and her other hand that held a spindle cut from a single emerald, which she twirled in the air as though she would that it outshine the green of the beech leaves.

"Oh, Märchen,[2] Märchen," the brook began to sing, "will you not bathe to-day? Put by your staff and spindle and dip down to me. I have not kissed you to-day."

The fair head peeped down and looked into the wood. No, there was no one there, not even a deer. So Märchen laid distaff and spindle among the moss of the tree trunk, twisted her hair into a knot, let fall her linen garment, and, seizing hold of two twigs, let herself glide down to the surface of the brook, and then began to swing merrily to and fro, her feet touching the water as she swung. But the brook did not cease from singing, and from imploring her to come down into him. Then she let go the twigs, and fell, like a shower of spring blossoms, into its wavelets.