The Baroness Von Bandelboots was a woman of an awful temper. Her husband trembled before her, her servants hardly felt that their souls were their own when she spoke, the vassals of the Bandelboots estates shivered in their shoes when they met her, and the neighbours all kept out of her way as much as possible. And yet there was no reason why this lady should have been so violent and have made herself and others so miserable! You would have thought she had everything to content her. The husband, good easy man, let her do just as she liked, and cared nothing for her indulgence of all her whims and fancies, so long as he was secure of his favourite pipe and his comfortable armchair after dinner.

She had several daughters of various ages who had never caused her a moment’s uneasiness, and after some years of anxious expectation a son had been bom who would in due course of time succeed to the honours of the family, and who meanwhile was, naturally enough, the legitimate object of her maternal devotion. Moreover, the Baroness lacked not riches. Not only were the estates of the Baron large and productive around his castle on the Rhine, but he had other distant property which brought him in no inconsiderable revenue, and he readily gave to his beloved wife control over wealth sufficient to have contented the most extravagant of females. Besides this, she had a house which was really charming, built upon an island in the middle of a lake, only a short distance from my beloved river, and furnished with everything that good taste could support and a full purse supply. Nor was she without neighbours, even in a country wherein neighbours are generally scarce. Several other castles stood within driving distance of the Bandelboots domain, and the Baroness could with very little exertion procure for herself society, if society she desired.

Nevertheless the good dame’s temper was a curse to herself and everybody she came near, and she seemed to delight in scolding for scolding’s sake. This unfortunate propensity had been productive of much discomfort and inconvenience to the Baron’s household, even before the particular events which I am about to relate. Several old and valuable servants had left, either having been dismissed by the Baroness in moments of passion, or having found themselves unable to stay consistently with their self-respect, after having been subjected to the strong language which she frequently used upon such occasions, which was, I am sorry to say, more than once followed by personal violence.

One servant she had indeed retained for several years, and this was her own maid, Martha Scweinvolt. This woman was one of a singularly unprepossessing appearance, and of a certain age. Her nose was long and somewhat like a hook, her forehead receded in a strange angle immediately above her eyebrows, her ears were remarkably large and low down on her head, her chin protruded, her neck was of unnatural length, her hands and feet larger than those of ordinary women, and her figure tall, lank, and ungainly. To such a person did the Baroness entrust the care of her wardrobe and the adorning of her noble self; and although she frequently indulged her with a good scolding, the maid received it all with stolid indifference, perhaps because, as her vinegar aspect seemed to denote, she herself could be cross upon occasions, and thought it not unreasonable that her mistress should be the same.

One day it chanced, indeed, that the kettle, so to speak, boiled over. Martha Scweinvolt had been engaged upon her mistress’s back hair, and the latter, seated in “demi-toilette” upon a low stool, had been reading a novel. Suddenly she took it into her head to drop the book and take up a small hand looking-glass to see how her maid was getting on. In so doing she made a forward movement, which, as Martha happened at that instant to have the hair tight in hand, had the natural effect of making the lady feel as if her maid had suddenly given her hair a violent and unpleasant pull. Without for a moment considering that it was entirely her own fault, the Baroness directly flew into a most furious passion. She stormed and raved against the woman until she was almost black in the face, and then, to finish matters off, struck her with either hand a violent box on the ears on each side of her head, and hustled her out of the room as if she was more than half inclined to kick her down-stairs then and there.

Once outside the door, Martha Scweinvolt became perfectly livid with rage. She turned round on the top of the stairs, faced the Baroness’s room, and shook her fist vehemently towards it, vowing by her eleven-o’clock bread and cheese and beer (the most solemn oath known among domestic servants of the feminine gender) that she would have her revenge. Nor was Martha a person by any means likely to forget or neglect such a vow. Day and night she brooded over the matter, and ground her teeth savagely together as she remembered the indignity to which she had been subjected. And the more she brooded, the more determined did she become to seek vengeance from some quarter whence it could be surely and safely obtained. By herself she knew she could do but little; and as she was by no means popular among the other servants of the household, she could place but little reliance on any assistance from them. How to proceed, therefore, she had great doubts, but to proceed in some manner she was quite determined.

Now unfortunately for me, Brother Thames, as you may perhaps be aware, a part of my stream has always been more or less under the influence of a class of river demons from which you in England are happily free. I believe a milder kind of demon exists in Scotland under the name of water kelpie, and possibly there may be something of the sort here and there even in your favoured English rivers, but you have nothing to match the demons of the Rhine. It is not a theme upon which I love to dwell. No respectable river desires to have anything to do with such creatures, and I frankly confess that at times they have brought my waters into great disrepute.

Well (or rather not at all “well,” according to my view of the case), it happened that the Rhine near the castle of the Baron von Bandelboots was terribly infested by these noxious spirits, only too ready at all times to do any mischief in their power to any human being, or to assist one mortal in gratifying his or her malice against another. To these demons did Martha Scweinvolt determine to appeal, and made up her mind to risk, if necessary, body and soul in order to obtain vengeance upon her hated mistress.

Very often I am able to prevent the wicked plans and machinations of these spirits, and I never fail to do so if I can manage it. If things had gone rightly, I should have stopped the affair of which I am about to tell you, and nipped it in the bud if possible, either by overflowing my banks suddenly and drowning the wretch Martha, or by some other means which my knowledge of the world would have enabled me to provide. But it most unfortunately happened that the nymphs and trolls and friendly elves of the river and forests near had given me an entertainment that very evening, at which they played me several very curious tricks. The jovial rascals insisted on my drinking my Steinbergh in large pint measures, so that I got rather more than my usual allowance; then they fastened a huge white beard upon my chin, pulled my whiskers, combed my hair, whispered soft things in my ear, climbed on my knees, and altogether kept me so well amused, that I never went out at all that evening to patrol the river banks, according to my usual habit, and was therefore entirely ignorant of all that occurred, until I was told it some time after by a member of the Rhine Conservancy Board, who had it from good authority.

It. seems that Martha Scweinvolt, having gone out late that evening, wandered down to the river, and there prayed vehemently to the demons for aid. Such prayers are hardly necessary to procure the assistance of bad spirits, when their object is to do mischief to somebody else.

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A demon, therefore, who happened to be near the spot, forthwith presented himself to the waiting-maid, and that so suddenly that she fainted away immediately. Demons, however, being very skilful in the ways of women, know perfectly well that the best way to ensure their speedy recovery in such cases is to take no notice whatever of their proceeding. The evil spirit, therefore, followed this sensible plan, and waited patiently until Martha “came to,” when he politely inquired what her wishes might be and what service he could render.

The woman unfolded her grievance, and used several bad expressions with regard to her mistress, which caused her companion to grin with sympathetic pleasure. He then inquired what revenge she desired to take; to which Martha replied that she should like to have the power given her of inflicting severe personal chastisement upon the Baroness. But the demon scouted the idea. The pride of birth and rank work too much good to the objects which are dear to evil spirits to make them partial to any plan for the degradation of either one or the other, and such a degradation would have been inflicted had the well-born Baroness been subjected to personal chastisement at the hands of her menial. Besides this, the power of the demon was but limited, and this would have been possibly beyond it.

Martha suggested several other things, but at length she broke out in joyful tones, as if an unusually bright idea had suddenly struck her: “I know!” she cried; “let’s do something to the child, the young Baron Hubert. Strangle him, or lame him for life, or make him humpbacked; that will wring her old heart-strings!”

On hearing these words, the demon, who was a decent fellow at bottom, though withal up to any mischief of a reasonable kind, positively shuddered at the bitterness of the waiting-maid’s speech, accompanied as it was with a look of fiendish exultation which would have done credit to the worst of devils.

“Stop a bit, miss, stop a bit,” said he. “Fair and softly wins the race; you go too fast, and want too much, all at once. You must know that we demons cannot do everything just how and when, we please, as you seem to imagine. Not a bit of it! Fortunately for mortals who have enemies (and who has not?) our power is limited; and even suppose you had the child with you at this moment, I could not do what you require.”

“Then,” exclaimed Martha angrily, “what in the name of goodness can you do?”

At these words the demon shuddered visibly. “Don’t use such language, young lady,” said he, “if you want my help, but listen attentively to what I am about to say.”

Much flattered at being called a young lady, and probably all the more so from her knowledge that to neither the substantive nor the adjective had she any right whatever, Martha bent her head forward eagerly, to hear what the water-demon had to suggest.

“If you like,” said he, “I can change the child.”

“Change the child!” cried the disappointed woman; “why, what would be the good of that?”

“All the good in the world,” replied her counsellor, “if you really wish to plague the mother. In the first place, the child I shall put in the place of the young Baron will not be nearly so pretty as the real child, and this will gall the mother’s heart not a little, unless baronesses are unlike other women. Then this false child will have a very much worse disposition. He will be cunning, ill-natured, greedy, mischievous, and a plague to the whole household.”

“The deuce he will!” cried Martha hurriedly. “But he won’t plague me, will he?”

“Better language by a good deal, my dear,” rejoined the demon, smiling good-humouredly at the exclamation of his companion; “but as to the inquiry you make, I can hardly reply. Should the little changeling, however, prove any annoyance even to yourself, I am sure you would willingly submit thereto in consideration of the glorious revenge which you will wreak upon the wretched mother. Why, your poor ears must even now be tingling from the effects of those shameful slaps, and, if I were in your place, it would be long enough before I forgot them!”

“Don’t be afraid, Mr. Demon,” answered the maid, gnashing her teeth fiercely as she spoke. “I am not one to forget or forgive either, and, after all, a child can’t really annoy me much. I’ll risk it, anyhow, so that my brute of a mistress is made to suffer.”

“That’s right, my brave girl,” merrily replied her friend, smiling with as pleasant a look as he knew how to put on. “That shows the true spirit of a German lady. Never fear, you shall have your revenge, and that speedily.” Thereupon he commenced a series of questions as to the habits of the household and the rooms which were occupied by the youthful Baron, and having ascertained all the particulars which he required, bade Martha Scweinvolt return home, and rest assured that her desire should be accomplished upon the innocent baby, and his mother made to rue bitterly the hour when she first laid hands upon her waiting-maid.

Martha departed, having, I suppose, in the first instance given some such pledge to the demon as these creatures are in the habit of exacting from those who seek their good offices, which usually consists of a simple arrangement regarding their future which they have no power whatever to make, and which may hereafter be set aside on an appeal to the proper tribunal.

Meanwhile, the Baroness von Bandelboots had not the slightest suspicion of the calamity which was hanging over herself and her family. She ate, drank, slept, and scolded after her usual fashion, and did not alter her behaviour one whit after the adventure with her waiting-maid, which had so painfully affected the latter.

The young Baron Hubert was but a few months old, and his nurse, Sophie Grutchen, had the sole charge of his precious person. His nursery was, as luck would have it, on the side of the castle facing the river; but I apprehend that to demons and creatures of that description the situation of the apartment would have made but little difference, and indeed there was the lake to cross in any case.

Late one evening the demon set out to fulfil his promise. He swam the lake, climbed the wall of the castle, entered the room in which the young Baron slept by the window, and, during the scarcely more than momentary absence of the nurse, abstracted the baby from his cot, deposited therein an elfin child of the same size, and departed with the real baby by the same way he had come.

Now, the little Baron had, from his first entrance into the world, been distinguished by his remarkably docile and tractable nature. He rarely cried, never fretted, and was, in consequence, a general pet, so far as such a term can be applied to an infant of such tender age. Within an hour or two, however, after the occurrence which I have just related, Mother Grutchen began to find her charge less quiet and more troublesome than had previously been the case. She forthwith reported the fact to the Baroness, who, however, took her to task sharply for the same, saying that it was all fancy, and that the dear child was a little angel. This the poor nurse by no means wished to deny, but it entered her head that there were different kinds of angels, and that vowed and declared that this was not the right child.

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This was an unpleasant and curious exclamation, and put Mother Grutchen in a terrible flurry. She owned that she thought the young Baron looked rather queer, but remarked that babies varied considerably from time to time; and, moreover, that as she had scarcely had him out of her sight since the day he was born, he could not by any possibility be anything else than the young Baron. Still the Baroness held to her opinion, and even some of these might occasionally be troublesome. She determined faithfully to do her duty by the child nevertheless, and to make no more complaints to her mistress. The latter was not slow, however, to find out that something was amiss with the infant. The very next morning, when it was brought to her, she looked at it with a strange and startled expression, and declared that it was not her child.

Upon this the Baron was appealed to at once. He, poor man, was terribly annoyed at being asked the question. Proud as he had been from the first of his infant son, he was one of those who held the theory that all babies are, up to a certain age, very much alike, and was positively quite incapable of pronouncing upon the identity of his own child. He put on his large gold-rimmed spectacles, stared vacantly down upon the infant, and said several things which had nothing whatever to do with the question.

This put the Baroness in a passion, which by no means mended matters at all, and there seemed every probability of a general row. But Martha Scweinvolt, who had been hovering about the door, waiting to be summoned, now found an excuse for entering the room, and so strongly expressed her decided belief and conviction that the child was the right child, and none other, that the good nurse felt her own opinion coming more strongly to the same conclusion. The Baron, for very peace and quietness, agreed with the two servants; and the Baroness, finding them all against her, had a regular good scold all round, and said no more about it.

Thus it came to pass, Brother Thames, that the child Hubert was carried off by the water-demon, and a wretched little changeling put in his place and accepted as the young heir. It was not long before his evil propensities began to develop themselves. He could scarcely walk alone before he was in mischief, and, indeed, long before this time he knocked over his mother’s morning cup of tea whenever he could manage to do so in his early visits to her bed, and scratched the Baron’s face, as he lay asleep, with a tiny fist which seemed hardly capable of hurting so much as it did.

He grew fast for a short time, and then remained as if he would never grow any bigger. But his appetite was more like that of a full-grown man, nor was he particular where or what he ate. At breakfast he would finish off a huge bowl of porridge, and make his old nurse tilt over the bowl so that he might lick off the last drop from the edge. He would clutch at everything on the dining-room table if brought in during meals, and roar and cry loudly if the things he wanted were not immediately given to him.

As he grew older, his conduct by no means improved. Not only was he abominably rude to his supposed father and mother, but he took every opportunity of endeavouring to make them fall out. He would, with an utter disregard of truth, but with a wonderful air of innocence, tell the Baroness how he had heard the Baron say she had a bad temper, and was a disagreeable woman; whilst he would tell the Baron, as an affair of everyday occurrence, that his wife spoke of him as a lazy sot, who was no companion whatever to her, and spent his life in eating, drinking, and smoking.

These little things were scarcely calculated to improve the happiness of the worthy couple, but this was by no means the only channel through which the little wretch poured discomfort upon the household. He set everybody by the ears whenever he could, and showed an utter heartlessness of character, coupled with a reckless depravity of disposition, which was perfectly horrible. He roared with laughter on being told of any misfortune having happened to another person, and scowled sulkily when any one fell in with a piece of good luck. Crushing flies on the windows was one of his earliest amusements, and when this had become monotonous, he used to torture any animal he could get hold of with a cruelty beyond belief.

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He would stick pins in his pony’s neck to make it dance, as he said, and indulge in screams of laughter at its suffering. He snipped off his dog’s ears with a sharp pair of scissors, put the house-cat into the copper full of boiling water until its yells brought the cook to save it, and loved better than anything to get hold of some of the skewers out of the kitchen, in order to impale upon them any unfortunate mouse which he could find in the traps.

If any visitor came to the castle, he was fortunate indeed if he escaped unhurt. The little wretch began upon him as soon as he entered the house, creeping slyly behind him in order to cut off the buttons of his coat, give him a cruel pinch when least expected, and even sometimes went the length of running a pin into his leg. And when the unhappy gentleman rose to depart, if he did not find his coat-tails tied fast to the chair, ten to one but he was tripped up, as he ran down the stairs, by a thin but strong string, tied ankle-high by the young Baron about half-way down, nearly sure to produce a most awkward fall, the annoyance of which was increased by the triumphant and insulting chuckle of the little villain, who, perched on the highest step, or peeping through the banisters above, would watch with eager delight to witness the effects of his wicked trick.

It is not surprising that the young rascal was cordially detested throughout the whole household. Indeed, they had small cause to do anything else but detest him. There was no trouble he did not give the servants, and no trick which he did not play them. If he met the housemaids on the stairs or in the passages he invariably blew out their candles, or ran hastily against them, as if by accident, so as if possible to make them drop any tray or jug they might be carrying. He rang the bell constantly for nothing, and pointed and laughed at the footman who came hurrying to answer it. He turned the lamp-oil into the soup just as the cook was about to send it up for the Baron’s dinner, put a quantity of vinegar into the beer which the butler had carefully drawn for the “hall” supper, and smeared the groom of the chamber’s chair in “the room” so thickly with bird-lime, that the respected individual in question had the greatest difficulty in ever getting out of it again. In short, he became the torment of the house, and everybody wished most devoutly that he had never been born.

The only consolation was that, somehow or other, he selected Martha Scweinvolt as his principal victim. That woman’s life became a burden to her. Her thimble was constantly missing, and, when put on hastily, was more than once full of tar or glue, cunningly placed therein by the malicious urchin. “Booby-traps” were constantly set for her, in the shape of heavy books or jugs of water skilfully balanced on the top of the door of the Baroness’s room, which was then left just ajar, and the bell hastily rung, so that, coming down-stairs and entering the apartment in a hurry, she was sure to get the benefit of the jug or books upon her devoted head. These tricks, however, were by no means his worst. The supposed young Baron, in his visits to the housekeeper’s room, never missed the chance of paying attention to Martha’s comfort after his own peculiar fashion. He put salt in her beer when her head was turned; slyly inserted needles in her bread, which more than once proved nearly fatal to the woman; and upon one occasion doctored her tea with some drugs which he had abstracted from his mother’s medicine-chest, and which produced serious and most unpleasant results. Not content with these practical jokes, the urchin never spared the feelings of anybody, and Martha was oftentimes almost goaded to madness by his insulting remarks upon her personal appearance, disposition, and situation in life. As time went on, matters seemed to get rather worse than better, and the wretched woman experienced to her cost that revenge, sweet as it may be, cannot be purchased without a heavy sacrifice.

While these things were passing in the castle of Bandelboots, the question may not unnaturally be asked of me what had become of the real child, the unfortunate young Hubert, who had been carried away by the river-demon. It may easily be supposed that his was no pleasant fate. Fortunately for him, those who had taken him from his happy home had no power either to kill or injure him, neither could they alter the goodness of his natural disposition. The latter, however, rendered his condition somewhat more uncomfortable than would otherwise have been the case, for being forced to consort with witches, demons, imps, and other low and disreputable society, he was constantly brought into contact with many things and people most disagreeable and revolting to anything pure and good. He was obliged to attend the “bad language class” of the water-imps, where prizes were given for swearing and wicked conversation; the art of tormenting was taught him by an elderly demon, to whom the task was congenial; and general instruction in devilry was afforded him by means of public lectures delivered by a spirit specially appointed for the purpose. Such, however, was his natural goodness, that he steadily refused to be perverted, maintaining a dignified silence amid the jesting and ribaldry of the imps around, and invariably declining to join in any of their misconduct.

All that the demons could do, under the circumstances, was to alter, without permanently injuring, the form with which he had entered the world. This they did by giving to his well-shaped body the appearance of a round and ill-made bulk, upon which they placed a bullet-head with a pair of short horns over the forehead, and ornamented it, moreover, with a long tail and a pair of bat’s wings. Thus being changed into a regular little devilet, it was marvellous that the boy should have continued to preserve the goodness and purity of his disposition. So it was, however; and as demons who live by tempting mortals to sin have a very large field over which to practise their skill, and cannot afford to devote to any one individual more than a fair share of their attention, they got tired after a while of trying it on with the young Baron, and ended by leaving him very much to himself. Then it was that the boy found amusement in flying about along the banks of the river.

By the mysterious laws of magic, he knew, and yet did not know, the misfortune which had befallen him, and the crime of which he had been made the victim. In other words, he knew that something was as it should not be, and that, somehow or other, he had been cruelly wronged, but of the exact nature of the wrong he was as yet ignorant. Still, some instinct led him to the lake in which was situated the island upon which stood his father’s castle, and he loved better than anything else to fly by night round and round the old place, uttering from time to time mournful cries, which now and then found their way to the ears of some of the Baron’s household. Whenever the false heir heard these sounds, it was noticed that he, shivered terribly, and crept, groaning and growling; under the nearest sofa, or anywhere out of sight.

And upon one occasion, when the cry sounded louder and clearer than usual, and there came a noise as if a wing—had flapped against window of the state-room in which the family were assembled that evening, he howled miserably, the ground, and almost went into convulsions with alarm.

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This behaviour on the part of his supposed son struck the Baron as strange, and was, indeed, the cause of some coldness between him and his wife. For, being a man somewhat proud of the chivalry and courage of his high ancestry, this display of cowardice on the part of his probable heir and successor greatly irritated the old gentleman, and he boldly declared that he was sure it all came from the mother’s side. Such an accusation naturally put the Baroness into one of her passions, in the course of which she went so far as to pull off her husband’s wig and slap his cheeks. This indignity was one to which the Baron could scarcely be expected to submit, and having soundly shaken his respected consort, he left the room in high dudgeon, and took his meals alone for the next three days, which annoyed the Baroness more than anything else, as it left her only her daughters and servants to scold, which had become rather insipid. After a while this conduct of the child was set down to constitutional timidity, and the Baron only smiled contemptuously when it was repeated.

So time wore on, and it really seemed as if there was no reason why the truth should ever be discovered, or the success of Martha Scweinvolt’s wicked scheme be otherwise than complete. It was not, however, wholly satisfactory to the waiting-maid herself, for, independently of the unpleasant behaviour of the false heir towards her, she had not even the satisfaction of seeing her mistress suffer as she had hoped. So it is that people who consult demons, or, what is nearly as bad, follow the dictates of their own evil passions, are generally deceived in the result, and find that the good to themselves which they expected to obtain pretty certainly ends in disappointment.

Although the Baroness had at first declared that the child brought to her by Sophie Grutchen on that eventful morning was not her own, she had become reconciled to the state of things in a marvellously short time, fancied that, after all, she must have been under some delusion, and in a very few days took kindly to the infant. As he grew up, her fondness for him increased, and, in spite of what has been so often said and written about the unfailing instinct of a mother, she firmly believed him to be her own son. Instead, therefore, of her heart-strings being wrung, as Martha had charitably hoped would have been the case, she was by no means unhappy. True it is, she suffered somewhat from the urchin’s behaviour, but, when it did not happen to affect her own personal comfort, she took his part against the complaints of others, stood up for him when the Baron found fault, and scarcely ever endeavoured to check him in his mischievous and tormenting ways.

Thus did Martha find that she had brought a plague upon herself without really securing her revenge, and that the only person who had been punished was the innocent child against whom she had borne no grudge. This was by no means a pleasant reflection, and in some natures would have produced a repentance for the evil done, and a sincere desire to undo it if possible. I regret to be obliged to state that this was by no means the case with Martha. On the contrary, her desire for revenge was unappeased, and the more she discovered that she had failed, the more she resolved that she would, somehow or other, ultimately succeed. With this view, therefore, she once more sought the river side, and summoned to her aid her former friend the water-demon.

As there was nothing attractive in her appearance, or delightful in her society, the demon, who knew moreover that his hold upon her was sufficiently secure to make it a matter of indifference to him whether she committed any more crimes or not, did not come until she had adjured him by many entreaties and employed all the incantations of which she was the mistress. When at last he appeared, he treated her with contemptuous coldness, and derided her complaints that she had not enjoyed her promised revenge. In fact he told her, in so many words, that he had fulfilled his part of the bargain, and that she had no business to trouble him any more.

Most people would have taken this for a final answer, but Martha was not disposed to be put off after such a fashion. She told the demon that she was quite ready to own that he had done what he had promised, although the result had not been so satisfactory as she had been led to expect. She had, however, another plan, in which she required his assistance, and put it plainly to him, as a well-bred devil, whether he could refuse a lady under the peculiar circumstances of the case. Besides, she said, there would be crime committed by other persons, and possibly misery to many, if her plan could be carried out, and these should be powerful inducements to any right-minded demon, who understood the interests of his class, to render his willing and active assistance.

Her plan, then, was to stir up the neighbouring peasants and shepherds to revolt against the Baron. By constantly dinning into their ears stories of the lazy and useless life he led, and the abominable temper and tyranny of the Baroness, Martha had little doubt that a spirit of disaffection might be excited among these ignorant people which she would eventually be able to turn to good account. If she could induce them to rise against the Baron, and suddenly attack the castle, she would take good care that the Baroness should not escape; and even if the movement was not successful, she would be able in the confusion to wreak her revenge, by dagger or poison, upon her hated mistress. Such an attempt, in any case, could not fail to be productive of much evil and discomfort to one side or the other, and must, therefore, be a scheme which should at once recommend itself to the individual whom she was addressing.

The demon listened with attention to Martha’s speech, and at its conclusion warmly complimented her upon the fertility of her brain, and expressed his candid opinion that she deserved to have been a demon herself. He owned that he felt bound, as a gentleman and a devil, to give her every assistance in his power, and asked her several questions as to the manner in which she thought he could be of most use in furthering her views. The waiting-maid replied that her only fear was as to her being able to persuade the people to take her advice and rise against the Baron. The old feudal principle still lurked in their breasts, and although they were certainly poor they were tolerably honest, and having been generally treated with kindness by the inhabitants of the castle, might possibly be weak enough to entertain towards them sentiments of affection and gratitude.

The demon, however, who knew better than Martha how little of either of these feelings exists in the heart of man, smiled a contemptuous smile at her ignorance of human nature, and told her that she need feel no uneasiness upon the point. He added, however, that as she doubted her persuasive powers, he would give her such valuable aid as would materially improve her chances of success. He would forthwith speak to two highly respectable wehr-wolves of his acquaintance, who would be ready, for his sake, to accompany her whenever she went out among the peasants. By following her closely, these animals would add to the estimation in which the ignorant rustics would hold her, and although they would not speak when she was in the company of other mortals, they would give her many private hints which she would find immeasurably useful in persuading those with whom she would have to do.

Much gratified by this assurance, Martha wended her way homewards in better spirits than she had enjoyed for some time past, and was even able to smile contemptuously when she found that the young Baron had taken the opportunity of her absence to put a hedgehog in her bed, and empty a bottle of castor oil into her best Sunday boots. She lost no time in commencing operations, and almost every afternoon walked out into the country to spread disaffection among the people.

At first, it is true, she was rather frightened at the appearance of the wehr-wolves, whom the demon had been as good as his word in sending to meet her. They always waited for her at the corner of a neighbouring wood, and accompanied her to the cottages of the peasants. After a short time she began to hold small meetings of the latter, at which she held forth concerning the wrongs they suffered at the hands of the Baron: how shameful it was that he should be so rich and they so poor, and how one man was just as good as another.

She always took care to wind up by attributing much of their particular miseries to the bad influence of the Baroness, whom she denounced as an upholder of everything bad, a cruel tyrant in her household, and altogether a monster of iniquity. As she lectured in this way, one of the wehr-wolves generally sat just behind her and the other at the other end of the room, and the presence of these animals made a vast impression upon the ignorant peasants. In this manner, little by little, the wicked Martha obtained considerable influence over the poor people, who became gradually more and more moody and discontented, until at last they really came to look upon the Baron as a hateful tyrant, and regarded the Baroness as a monster in human form.

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While all these things were going on, you must not suppose, Brother Thames, that evil was allowed to enjoy an uninterrupted triumph in Rhineland. I am glad to be able to say that such has never been the case for long; and that although my stream has always been more or less troubled by demons, imps, devilets, and water-rats (which are nearly as bad), it has never been without a redeeming element in the shape of good fairies, nymphs, and an occasional stray mermaid, come up from the sea for change of air and scenery. These creatures have, from time to time, performed many acts of kindness to mankind, and when the powers of evil have proved too strong for them for a time, they have now and then requested me to interfere.

In the present instance a strong deputation of nymphs waited upon me, and brought before me a particular part of the case which I am now about to enter upon. Among those persons who were most greatly plagued by the false heir, were his three supposed sisters, the elder children of the Baron and Baroness von Bandelboots. These young ladies were endowed with considerable personal attractions, and were girls of whom a brother might well have been proud. Dora, Bertha, and Elladine were the names of the three, and up to the time of the changing of the children they had lived lives as happy and contented as was compatible with the ever-varying temper of their worthy mother. They were quite young, indeed, when the event occurred which so destroyed the comfort of the Bandelboots household, and at the time at which I have now arrived in my narration were just budding into womanhood, three as fair flowers as you would wish to see. Their young devilet of a brother, or rather he who was supposed to be their brother, contrived to make their existence perfectly miserable; and as the Baroness invariably took his part against them, their lives at last became positively unendurable.

It was not only that a chignon was constantly hidden or stolen just when it was wanted, stays were mysteriously cut, gloves spoiled, best bonnets crammed up the chimney, and best boots deposited in the bath. These discomforts were unpleasant enough, but the little wretch went far beyond them. He pinched and nipped the poor girls whenever he met them, trod on their toes suddenly, drew away their chairs just as they were about to sit down, and put rhubarb and magnesia into their five o’clock tea. Moreover, he carried all kinds of tales about them to the Baroness, and told falsehood upon falsehood for the mere purpose of getting them into disgrace. Then, when the Baroness inflicted punishment upon them, he would jeer and taunt and tease the poor girls, rendering it doubly disagreeable by his ill-natured and malicious joy. Nothing delighted him so much as to see others suffer, and it seemed as if he lived for nothing else save to procure as much misery as possible for his neighbours.

This state of things gradually drove Dora, Bertha, and Elladine to desperation; and, after many plans and consultations, they determined to seek advice from some of the good spirits of my river. As it happened, however, that, although they are very willing to give good advice and to assist mortals whenever they can, my nymphs and fairies are restrained by etiquette from active interference with the demons in those parts of the river especially appropriated to the latter, the good creatures thought it better to bring the matter before me; and on being consulted by the young ladies, the nymph who saw them upon the subject told them to come again at a certain time, before which she waited upon me, as I have said, with a deputation.

When the case had been fairly represented to me, I saw at once that it was one in which something should be done, and I accordingly promised that if the three young persons would bathe together at a certain spot on the following morning, I would present myself before them and hear their story.

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The time came, and I can assure you, Brother Thames, that in order to inspire confidence in the breasts of the maidens, I made my appearance as venerable as I could previous to my appearance before their astonished eyes.

The sweet creatures stood in the water clinging fondly to each other, as they implored my assistance; and whilst I listened to their artless tale of woe, I leaned my head upon my hand, and pondered deeply over the best course to be taken in order to afford them that assistance which I at once determined to render.

I was not long in making up my mind, and in resolving that the demons should not be allowed to have things all their own way. However, as you know very well, the laws of magic must not be broken, and it would never have done for me to have rudely and suddenly exercised my superior power in order to set matters right in the castle of Bandelboots. All I could fairly do was to put mortals in the way of helping themselves, at the same time interfering, if need should arise, with just as much exercise of power as might be necessary. So, having spoken words of comfort to the three girls, I told them to go home and try and bear their misfortunes for three days more, and at the end of that time, if matters were no better, they might again pay me a visit.

There was, as you may suppose, no improvement in their condition during the appointed time. In fact, their supposed brother was, if possible, rather worse than ever. He cut off a great bit of Bertha’s back hair, stole up behind Elladine and boxed her ears violently, and finished up by giving Dora’s pet canary to the cat, which he afterwards hung, as he said, for the murder. It was no matter of surprise to me, then, when the three maidens again presented themselves before me, weeping bitterly over their many misfortunes and sorrows.

I no longer hesitated as to the course which I should pursue, but immediately changed the sisters into three magnificent swans, desiring them to frequent as much as possible the lake on which their father’s castle stood. This course, as you will readily perceive, had a double effect of a most useful character. For one thing, it of course showed the inhabitants of the castle that something was wrong, and aroused both the Baron and Baroness to exertions for the recovery of their lost daughters which would very likely result in their finding out from the powers of magic something, as the lawyers say, “very much to their advantage.” But above and beyond this was the circumstance that, as swans are gifted with the miraculous power of seeing through magical disguises, the young ladies would be perfectly certain to encounter and recognise their real brother in some of his flittings over the lake, and thus would eventually be brought about the consummation so devoutly to be desired.

You may well believe that the disappearance of the three girls plunged the castle into the direst confusion. No one could imagine where they had gone to, and all kinds of surmises were afloat. The Baron smoked twice as many pipes as usual; the Baroness flew into a more violent passion than had been the case for a month before; poor old nurse Grutchen wept bitterly; Martha Scweinvolt seemed to have more vinegar than ever in her countenance; and the false heir ran about teasing and worrying everybody twice as much as usual, and was apparently in the highest possible spirits at the loss of his sisters. Every hole and corner of the castle was searched, the river was dragged, the crier was sent through the straggling hamlets of the neighbourhood, special messengers were despatched in every direction, but it is needless to say that no success attended any of these proceedings.

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And the stately swans swam all the time around the ancient walls of their ancestral home, and floated upon the waters of the lake they knew so well, thankful for the peace and rest which they at last enjoyed, and caressing each other with the tender love of creatures who knew that upon their mutual love and sympathy depended the whole comfort and happiness of their lives. Nor indeed were they long left in ignorance of the truth as to their unhappy brother. Scarcely had they been two days upon the old lake, before the transformed child came flying up from the river to take his mournful look at the home from which he had been so cruelly ravished. As he flew low over the waters he passed close to the three lovely swans, and they, casting their eyes upon him as they sat mournfully watching, recognised their brother at once through the hideous disguise he wore, and called him to them with loud cries of joy.

The bat-boy paused in his flight, hovered for a moment near to the noble birds, and then, as he heard them speak, the whole of his sad story came back to him, the memories of his first few months upon earth as a mortal child were stirred in his bosom, and he knew clearly and fully his true nature and origin, and the cruel wrongs he had endured at the hands of the treacherous waiting-maid and her wicked ally the river-demon. As soon as he had fully realised the truth, the boy tenderly embraced his swan-sisters, and the four wept together over the sorrows of their family. Being well aware, however, that weeping would be of very little service unless followed by active measures, they discontinued that amusing pastime after a while, and consulted together as to the best course to be pursued.

Although comparatively happy in their new shape, the sisters readily confessed that they should infinitely prefer to resume their human bodies, provided that they could be assured of being able to live quietly and comfortably, and of being no longer troubled with the malice of the devilet heir. The youthful Hubert had of course no affection whatever for the form to which he had been condemned, and therefore the object of the four was clear enough, namely, to return to their natural shapes as soon as possible under more favourable conditions than those in which they had left them. The question was as to the wisest and best means of securing this desirable object, and here the magic knowledge generally possessed by swans came to their assistance.

They knew full well that their brother could never become his former self until the devilet who now possessed his shape and claimed rights which were his should be compelled to abandon both. They knew, moreover, that to bring this about would be a work requiring caution, since the river-demon was powerful and cunning enough to counteract all their efforts unless they could contrive to outwit him. It was, however, revealed to the sisters that there was one way in which this might be done, and by which the retransformation of their brother might be effected, and the false heir be obliged to return to him that sent him.

There lived far up in the great mountains, which could be seen in the distance from the castle windows, a being endowed with wondrous powers. He was commonly known by the name of the Harper, and a strange fellow he certainly was. No one quite knew whether he was merely mortal or something more. All that was certain was, that he lived the life of a hermit, was by no means particular in his dress or remarkably clean in his appearance, and wore a flat hat with ivy and oak leaves woven together on the crown. His harp was of the rudest and simplest character, but it had such extraordinary virtue that if he played it, accompanying himself while he sang or chanted to its tune, everybody and everything seemed obliged to yield to its magic powers. The sisters of Bandelboots knew full well that if this individual’s aid could be secured things would be pretty sure to go right, and therefore made up their minds to seek it without delay.

That night nothing could be done; the swans brooded quietly on the lake, and their brother flitted mournfully round the castle, uttering his melancholy cries, and hovering close to the windows of the home that should have been his. But early next morning the three swans rose from the water and took their flight towards the great mountains. Upwards and upwards they flew, pausing not for one moment’s rest, until they had crossed the river, passed over the large forest beyond, and reached the steep rocks and crags amid which the Harper had his home. There was snow on the heights, and the poor birds felt the chill strike through their warm plumage to their tender breasts as they flew higher and higher. Suddenly they came to a small grove of trees which grew on a platform of flat land, which was curiously placed just beneath one of the highest crags. At the extremity of this was a cave hollowed out in the rock, and in this cave dwelt the worthy Harper, only coming forth to the world below when specially summoned for some purpose beneficial to weak and suffering humanity.

Alighting at the mouth of the cave, the three sisters began to sing their sweetest song, which not unnaturally brought the owner of the cave out to see what was the matter. This his knowledge of magic soon enabled him to ascertain, and it is hardly necessary that I should give you the details of the interview. Suffice it to say that when they parted the worthy old gentleman nodded his head and winked his eyes knowingly at the young ladies, as much as to assure them that it would be “all right,” and that the three swans flew back to the lake exceedingly well satisfied with the result of their expedition.

Meanwhile, Martha Scweinvolt had very nearly brought her plans to maturity. The peasantry had become thoroughly discontented, and were prepared to take action against the family whom they had been taught to regard as their oppressors. Martha’s desire was that they should surprise the castle by a sudden assault, she on her part undertaking that one of the gates should be unfastened when they arrived, and only stipulating that, if success attended their attempt, the Baroness should be delivered up to her mercy. The chief difficulty was in the means of transit, for the castle, being upon an island, could not easily be attacked except the latter were first reached by its assailants.

At one side the island was very near the mainland, from which a strip of land jutted out into the lake, and a large wooden bridge connected the two. This was the ordinary means of approach; and as a strong gate was placed at the island end of the bridge, over which a sentinel always watched, it was not very easy for any considerable body of men to cross over without their coming being made known to the inhabitants of the castle. Martha, however, was equal to the occasion. She managed to make friends with the sentinel on the night for which the attack was planned, and having induced him to abandon his post for a time, gave him a cup of tea so well drugged that he was quite unable to return there. The effect upon this man, I may here mention, was a melancholy one. From thenceforth he eschewed tea for ever, and took to drinking ale and spirits for the rest of his life, which should be a warning to all persons to take care what they put into their tea, and by whom they allow themselves to be tempted to partake of that usually refreshing beverage.

Having thus obtained possession of the key, Martha stole out and unlocked the bridge-gate, and returned to the castle delighted with her success. Once on the little island, the invaders of the castle would have little difficulty. The drawbridge was left down, the doors generally left open, and such was the security of the Baron in those peaceful days, that no precautions, further than guarding the bridge-gate, were ever taken against surprise. Besides the servants, there were not above five-and-twenty men-at-arms in the castle; and as several hundred peasants were likely to attack, there could be little doubt of the result, provided always that the surprise was as complete as Martha intended.

The night was clear and moonlight when the attacking party drew near. They were a strange-looking body of men, rudely and poorly clad, and armed with weapons of a varied and curious character. Some had clubs, some stakes sharpened at the points, some knives, daggers, and oddly fashioned swords, whilst not a few had only spades or prongs, and some appeared unprovided with any weapons save those which nature had given them. They crossed the bridge without opposition, found to their delight that the gate was open, passed quietly through it, and got safely upon the island. They advanced to the drawbridge, crossed it, and had nothing to do but to enter the doors beyond, and find themselves inside the castle.

The family had passed a somewhat unpleasant day. The Baron had taken deeply to heart the loss of his daughters, of whom he had become more than usually fond since his supposed son had shown himself of such a disagreeable character. The latter had been that day more mischievous and troublesome than ever: as the Baroness had a headache, he had amused himself with making as much noise as he possibly could, and had, moreover, indulged his passion for practical jokes by putting live toads into the maid-servants’ beds, and turning the ink-bottle into the Baron’s after-dinner decanter of port wine. The household not having been rendered more comfortable or harmonious by these innocent pastimes of the pretended Hubert, were about to retire to rest, when the sudden arrival of the insurgent peasants gave them something else to think of.

As soon as they were well inside the doors, the attacking party kept silence no longer, but, with loud shouts, began their work of plunder. The defenders of the castle were really so completely surprised, that resistance was almost impossible. The trembling servants hid themselves wherever they could—the groom of the chamber shutting himself up securely in the housemaid’s closet, the housekeeper flying instantly to the butler’s pantry, and the latter functionary betaking himself immediately to the beer-cellar, from which he was with difficulty dragged when the affair was over, but was never the same man afterwards. The men-at-arms, I am sorry to say, did but little better. Utterly bewildered at the whole business, they made no attempt at resistance until it was too late, and within a very short time the castle was in the hands of the invaders.

As soon as the Baron heard the first outcry he rang the bell loudly, and, as nobody answered, presently repeated the performance, with a precisely similar result. He had been just about to retire to rest, but finding that the uproar increased, and that something serious had certainly happened, he desisted from the act of pulling off his boots, seized his sword, and rushed down into the large state-room, where he was presently joined by some eight or ten of the men-at-arms and two or three of the household servants. As soon as he found that the castle had been attacked, and was actually in possession of an enemy, the Baron gnashed his teeth with rage at having been thus caught unprepared; but, being a man of courage, despite his natural laziness, determined to sell his life dearly at the least. He and his few retainers had just time to barricade the door at one end of the room, and place the large library-table and some other articles of furniture in such a position as to give them a better chance of self-defence if attacked by numbers, when the doors at the other end of the room were thrown violently open, and a crowd of peasants rushed in, yelling and bawling in loud and discordant tones as they advanced towards the master of the castle. It was at this moment that the old blood of the Bandelboots showed itself to advantage. The Baron displayed no signs of fear, but, drawing himself up to his full height (which, being barely four feet six inches, was of itself not imposing), and violently stamping his foot upon the floor, he thus addressed the intruders:—

“How now, varlets! Whence and for what object come ye here? How do ye dare, ye scum of the earth, to enter your Baron’s castle and beard a Bandelboots in his lair?”

Then stepped there forth a tattered, ragged, famished-looking man, well known in those parts by the name of Crazy Timothy; his eyes were wild and staring, his dress torn, and his whole appearance seemed amply to justify his nickname.

“We want our rights!” he cried in a loud voice. “What is a Bandelboots to us more than anybody else? We are starving, whilst you and your vile Baroness revel in plenty. Give us our rights—these are the days when the poor are as good as the rich! No more starvation for the poor peasant! Give us our rights!”

And thereupon the whole crew took up the chorus. “Our rights! our rights!—give us our rights!” and made as though they would advance upon the old Baron. The latter quailed not for a moment, but, curling his lips scornfully, thus made reply:—

“Rights? But what are they? Is it your rights to enter a peaceful dwelling and rob its owner? If these are your rights, why are they yours more than the rights of all the rest of the world? What better title have you to your homes than I to mine? And if you may enter and rob my castle, what protection has any one of you for his own cottage, which some one may say it is his right to enter and destroy? Poor churls! ye are deceived, and will but bring ruin upon yourselves. Retire before it is too late, and ye shall yet be pardoned!” Whatever might have been the Baron’s intention in uttering these words, I am sorry to say that they had no conciliatory effect upon those to whom they were addressed. Shouting aloud and brandishing their weapons, they were about to advance upon the venerable nobleman, when, from a side door, some new personages suddenly appeared upon the scene. Pushed along in a chair upon wheels, to which she was securely bound, came the Baroness, in the custody of several peasants, who were under the more immediate guidance and control of Martha Scweinvolt. The latter, with a face beaming with delight, followed triumphantly behind, whilst the false heir, weeping and howling piteously, trotted by the side of the chair, driven forward by the peasants who ushered the Baroness into the room.

The poor Baroness presented a spectacle sad indeed to behold. She was in a towering rage, but at the same time perfectly helpless, and foamed at the mouth with fury as she strove in vain to get loose from the cords with which she was tied.

When these new arrivals had advanced into the room between the Baron and the peasants, there was a momentary pause, during which Martha stepped in front of the chair upon which the poor Baroness was fastened, and, pointing at her with outstretched arm and scornful gesture, addressed the peasants in these words:—

“Here she is, good people; here is the source of all your ills—the cause of all your woes! The poor fool of a Baron would do no harm but for this vile woman. See what a passion she is in now! This is her usual temper; and no wonder she is such a tyrant, and makes her husband the same!”

At this point the Baroness broke in, having previously-vented her rage in sobs and incoherent shrieks. “Let me loose! let me loose!” she cried. “You riff-raff—you vagabonds—you traitors—let me loose directly! This wretched creature has deceived you all; she is a worthless, good-for-nothing hussy. Let me loose, or I vow you shall all be hanged!” And the Baroness shrieked for fury again, her temper being by no means improved by the false heir, who, despite all his fears for himself, seeing her securely tied, could not resist the temptation of giving her a fearful pinch in the fleshy part of the arm, for which a peasant instantly knocked him down.

Before Martha could speak again, the Baron, who was a good old chap in the main, roared out aloud: “By my grandfather’s monument!” cried he (an oath all the more terrible from the edifice in question being well known to be the largest and ugliest of its kind for miles around); “this is past all bearing! Knaves! will ye list to the falsehoods of this base harridan, who has eaten our salt for years, and now wags her evil tongue against a kind, though perhaps somewhat hasty, mistress? Never has the Baroness said a word against one of ye. My faults, whatever they be, are mine own, and for them I will answer. But what has the Baroness done? Who sends ye alms and food when sickness is amongst ye? Who helps your wives and children when trouble is in your homes? Who but the Baroness? And is this your gratitude?”

There was some truth in what the Baron now said, for his wife was by no means unkind to the poor, nor would they have readily turned against her but for the wiles of Martha, assisted by the magical powers of the wehr-wolves. But Martha knew too well to let the Baron continue. She broke in upon his discourse with her shrill, sharp voice: “Hear the good man, my friends; he is right to stand up for his wife, no doubt, but he knows well that he is false to the truth. She is a wretch, a tyrant, a termagant! Yes, Madam the Baroness,” she continued, coming close in front of the chair, and approaching her face much nearer to that of the poor lady than the latter deemed at all pleasant—“yes, your reign is at an end—do you hear, you old fright? Your back hair shall be pulled out; though, as it is nearly all false, it will cause you but little pain. Your nose shall be wrung!—your ears shall be slit!—and you shall serve me—do you hear? Oh, you’re a pretty one to box a person’s ears. I’ll pay you out now for that, I’ll warrant me!” And as she spoke she lifted up her arm, about to give the Baroness a box on the ears with her full force. But in the very act she paused—stopped—and stood trembling and irresolute, as if suddenly arrested by some superior power.

At the same moment, and apparently by the same influence, the peasants one and all felt themselves restrained from moving forwards, the Baroness ceased to scream, and a dead silence fell upon the whole of the party, whilst, with a low and miserable moan, the false heir crept behind the coal-scuttle, and crouched himself down within as small a compass as possible. The whole of this marvellous effect had apparently been produced by a very trifling cause. The low, tinkling sound of a harp was heard, and those who looked round in the right direction saw, standing in the embrasure of one of the windows which looked out upon the lake, an old man of by no means noble or prepossessing exterior, with a leaf-crowned hat upon his head, and a harp of very simple construction in his hands, from the strings of which he elicited the sound they had heard, to which he now added that of his own voice. And thus he sang, in a dull, monotonous tone, to the astonished audience:—

Here the stranger paused, and, to the wonder and surprise of all those who heard and saw, the supposed young heir crept moaning and whining from behind the coal-scuttle, and shambled across the room towards the window at which the old harper was standing. As he did so, the strange bard continued his song,—

As he spoke, a strange transformation came at once over the wretched imp. His boyish shape disappeared; a tail shot out where tails usually grow; the wings of a bat sprang upon his shoulders; his form became ugly and misshapen, and he stood before them all a regular devilet, and no mistake! At the very same instant the window behind the harper flew open as if by magic, and in flew a figure similar to that before them, from which, however, the wings and tail dropped, the evil shape disappeared, and a handsome, well-proportioned boy, with a remarkably sweet expression upon his countenance, stood before the astonished party.

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In an instant a shriek of joy was heard from the corner in which some of the trembling servants were assembled, and old nurse Grutchen rushed forward and threw herself upon the boy’s neck with a burst of mingled sobs and laughter. “My pet! my darling! my child!” she cried. “It is you! I know it is you! Come to old Sophie then, my pearl of the world;” and again she shrieked with joy.

More wonders followed before any of the audience had recovered from their astonishment at what had already occurred. With a yell and a howl the devilet flew towards the window, his passage through which was mightily assisted by a hearty kick from the old harper, and he was seen no more. Scarcely, however, had he left the scene when the rushing of wings was heard, and three magnificent swans sailed through the window and alighted in the room, exactly in front of the old harper, to whom they looked up with longing and affectionate glances. The worthy man at once struck his harp again, and sang as follows:—

As he ceased speaking the feathers fell off from the three swans, their beaks changed into beautiful noses, their forms became those of lovely young ladies, and Dora, Bertha, and Elladine once more stood in their proper shapes before their surprised and delighted parents.

Whilst this had been going on, the youthful Hubert, making one bound forward, sprang to his mother’s chair, and, seizing a dagger from the hand of a bewildered peasant, set her free in an instant. Upon this the Baroness, overcome by mingled emotions of joy and wonder, wept upon her boy’s neck, and the old harper thus continued, addressing himself emphatically to the crowd of peasants before him:—

He spoke, and, as he concluded, the peasants, half frightened and half ashamed, began to steal away by twos and threes at a time, until none of them were left behind. The Baron, who had listened with the utmost attention to the words of the old harper, now stepped forward and tenderly embraced his daughters, after which he clasped his recovered boy to his heart, and vowed that upon that joyous day no one should be punished, and even the treacherous peasants who had invaded his castle should be freely forgiven.

The Baroness fell weeping on her husband’s heart, loudly bewailed her own infirmity of temper, and vowed that she would never fly into a passion again. At this the Baron, whilst her face was hidden upon his shoulder, slowly elevated his right hand, placed his forefinger horizontally against the side of his nose, and winked knowingly at his daughters.

Presently the Baroness raised her head, and, in tones of some feeling, asked what had become of that wretched Martha, gnashing her teeth as she spoke with an air that inspired considerable doubts as to her being’ able to keep her new resolution. This, however, was not put to the test as far as Martha was concerned. As soon as she perceived that things were going wrong, but that the harper was not alluding to her in his verse, that worthy person slipped quietly from the room and the castle, and sought refuge in the wood where her wehr-wolves usually met her. The animals were there as at other times, but their reception of her was not the same. No sooner was she within the wood than the expression of their countenances grew strange and fierce, so that the woman trembled all over. In another instant they seized upon her and dragged her, one on each side, near to where the wood touched the banks of the river. Wildly she shrieked for aid, and in another moment the form of the River-demon appeared upon the bank. This time, however, he had no cheering counsel to give. With a wild and derisive laugh he pointed jeeringly at the unhappy woman, whom the wehr-wolves held fast, while they growled-fearfully and savagely all the while.

“Ha, Martha!” he cried, “hast thou come to the end of thy revenge at last? They who seek demon-help must have demon-punishment, and thine hour is come to-day. Know this, poor wretch! that those who yield to their passions cherish within them that which will one day tear and destroy them as the wehr-wolves are about to do to thee, and those who wish for a happy end must control and govern themselves on the journey!” Then, with a fiendish leer and grin, he nodded his head to the wehr-wolves, and in another moment the wretched Martha was tom limb from limb, and perished miserably. Folks say that her spirit still haunts that wood, and that on dark and stormy nights her shrieks may be heard, accompanied by the growling of the wehr-wolves and the laugh of the exulting demon. But you and I, Brother Thames, know well how foolish mortals are with their tales of horror, and how ready they are to mistake a creaking tree for a shriek and a moonbeam for a spirit.

I have nothing more to say except that when the Baron and Baroness turned round to bless the old harper for his kindly aid, they saw nothing where he had been standing save the light of the sweet, pale moon shining in through the window. The harper had gone without waiting to be thanked, and they saw him no more. From thenceforth no spirits troubled the Bandelboots family, save when the Baron took an extra glass of brandy, which occasionally flew to his toe. The Baroness decidedly improved in temper, profiting by the example of her son, who grew up to be one of the most sweet-tempered and agreeable young noblemen that ever lived upon the banks of my river. Of the three girls, I can only say that as they made excellent daughters and capital sisters, they succeeded equally well when they entered upon the cares and joys of matrimony, and no women, married or single, were more often toasted in good Steinburgh than the three famous beauties, the swan-like daughters of the Baron von Bandelboots.

Father Rhine here ceased, and as soon as he had done so Father Thames struck a tremendous blow upon the table and vowed that the story he had just heard was one of the best that had ever been told. “I wish, however,” said he, “that you could have told us a little more upon one or two points, Brother Rhine. It would be satisfactory to know that the rascally little scamp of a devilet was well punished when he got home; but I suppose you know not whether such was the case or what became of him afterwards?”

“No,” Brother Thames, gravely replied the monarch of the Rhine, “I know not; and in fact I have always kept as much as possible aloof from the demons of my river, only showing them that ordinary civility which is rendered necessary by my position. I have little doubt, however, that the imp had misery enough in his future existence. No one who habitually annoys and injures others can ever have any real happiness himself, and, whether imp or mortal, unkindness and malice always recoil upon those who practise the one and are influenced by the other.”

“Certainly,” remarked Father Thames, “your words are true. But what became of the Baroness? Did she outlive the Baron, and was he cured of his laziness as well as she of her bad temper?”

“Brother,” said his companion in an expostulating tone, “you really ask more than I can recollect. There are very many castles in the vicinity of my river, and to remember the details of the family history of all their inhabitants is more than even I, as a river monarch, can venture to ‘undertake. I may, however, safely say that the Baroness died before the Baron, for I happen to be able to recall the circumstances of her death. She was inordinately fond of dried cherries, and would insist upon swallowing the stones. For some time this had no effect, but at last she was taken ill and died of a disease so mysterious that they determined to have her body opened, when no less than two hundred and forty-six cherry-stones were found inside her.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Father Thames in great surprise. “But now tell me what happened to the Baron.”

“I must positively decline,” answered the other. “A legend is a legend, and I have told you mine. It is now your turn, and I hope you will lose no time, for I expect the Rhone, the Danube, and the Seine upon a matter of business to-morrow, and shall be late for my appointment if we waste our time in unnecessary talking.”

“All right, brother,” shouted Father Thames, and, clearing his throat, began without further delay the story of—