BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.

CHAPTER I.

ISOLETH.

How shall I describe her? Who ever described the sun, or one of the glorious stars, or the white, witching moon; or who, even the least and simplest of the exquisitely, perfectly fashioned wild-flowers, that grow upon the humblest road-side? If these are indescribable, how much more so, in its highest perfection, is the most beautiful, most perfect of all God's beautiful, perfect creations—woman? Who ever depicted her one half as lovely and loving as she is? Who ever, amid all the wild, rapturous praise that has been so profusely lavished upon her, said one half that is her due for her truth and gentleness and beauty, her untiring devotion, her unwearying patience, her ever unselfish forgetfulness of self, her—,but what has been so many times vainly attempted, I cannot accomplish. How, then, shall I describe thee, beautiful Isoleth? Loveliest, lovingest, glowing, glorious Lady Isoleth! Bright Lady Isoleth!—wild as a hawk, and beautiful as Love. Thy every motion was grace, thine every look was truth. Bewitching little Isoleth! Her form was as lithe and flexible as a willow bough, and light and graceful as a young fawn's. Her queenly little head sat most proudly upon the daintiest, softest, whitest neck and bosom you ever saw. Two deep wells of light and love were her eyes, revealing every feeling of her beautiful soul. When she was sad, they looked out, half shut, through their long shining lashes, dewy, dark and tender; and when her mood grew merry, they danced in very joy. None yet agreed on their color. One would have sworn they were the softest, warmest brown—he saw them only when they were looking love, and he was—but of him anon. Another would have told you they were pure, clear blue—but he was the Lady Isoleth's confessor, with her when her thoughts dwelt upon things holy. By turns were they violet and gray, and all imaginable colors, in fact, except, indeed, green, or any other such unrighteous shade that eyes sometimes take upon themselves. Then her little, ripe, tempting mouth—ah! was it not just the mouth one loves to kiss? small, dimpled, with soft, rose-red lips; and tremulous ever—trembling with the love and gladness that filled her young heart. Most beautiful was the Lady Isoleth of Fernheath.

CHAPTER II.

THE BIRTH-DAY.

"My lady!" exclaimed a bustling, good-natured little old body, entering the room, which Wilhelm Gottfried, Baron of Arnhiem—the Lady Isoleth's uncle and guardian—ever pleased himself with calling the Lady Isoleth's menagerie, because, forsooth, the little lady delighted herself with feeding and taming countless birds that had been brought from all the known quarters of the globe. "My lady," spoke she, "do you know that this is your ladyship's birth-day, that you this day have arrived at an age which behooves you to put away childish things, and take upon yourself the cares that belong—"

"You wise, dear little nurse! don't put on so much of the awful; don't talk of care, you make me shiver at the bare idea.

And thus merrily sung the little airy Ariel, dancing around the room, scarce touching the floor as she sung.

"Bless her light, little, happy heart! What a sin that love must come, and with love, the self-loving, proud husband, that will bend that bright will to his own; and then old age, and care, sure enough, and wrinkles—and then that light, fairy-bounding step will be slow and leaden, and that—alas! alas! that such perfect beauty—!"

"What is that you are muttering about, nursey dear? You must not let me see one sad look to-day, for am I not this day sixteen—bright, merry sixteen!"

"Yes, my dear lady, sixteen to-day—sixteen to-day;" and the little dame, recovered from her momentary sadness, gave her lady a mysterious, quizzical look, as she once more repeated, "sixteen to-day!"

"Well, dear nurse, what would you have me do, or what shall I leave off from doing, now that I have grown so exceedingly old?" asked Isoleth, smiling that precious smile of hers—ten thousand dimples danced around it—ten thousand loves nestled in each dimple.

"Sixteen to-day!" replied the queer little old body, with what she meant for a very significant look. "Your guardian, the noble Baron of Arnhiem, comes this day—"

"As he does every year to see me, dear nurse, staying several weeks, sometimes months, with me."

"He comes not alone this year, my sweet lady," added the little woman, looking still more significantly.

"I suppose we shall have my dear prim old maiden aunt of Hansfeldt, with her snuff and lap-dogs, or is it my dear, sweet, beautiful cousins Blumine and Alida? Tell me, nursey, if they are coming. You shake your head. I guess, then, my proud uncle and aunt of Allwrath, and my aristocratic cousins, their haughty sons and daughters?"

"None of them, sweet lady—that is, just yet."

"My beautiful, loving-cousin, Alice of Bernstorf, who has been living these six years alone and lonely in her castle with only her younger son and daughters. Is she or any of hers coming here again? And when will my cousins of Bernstorf return from those hideous wars? I have not seen them for so many years I should not know them."

"Now, dear lady, you are approaching nearer the fire, as the children say in the play."

"You dear, queer little old nurse, don't look so mystical and mystified, my circle of acquaintance, by reason of my father's will, is not so very extensive but that the roll might soon be gone through with. Come, unfold thy important, mysterious budget—who is it?"

"Who should it be, dear lady, but your noble cousin, Ferdinand, Prince of Bernstorf! My lady, there is a clause in your father's will, that you were not to know until your sixteenth birth-day, revealing a compact between your noble father and your Cousin Ferdinand, the reigning Duke of Bernstorf, that gave you as bride to your cousin, Prince Ferdinand Of Bernstorf. There, now, my lady, 'tis out. The secret has half-choked me these twelve years."

"Very kind and considerate in my father; but his child does not choose to become the bride of any one just yet, least of all of one old enough to be her grandfather."

"Old!" exclaimed the dame, throwing back her hands in amazement, "Old! why, my dear lady, he is a mere boy; he will be but twenty-eight—"

"Twenty-eight! and I sixteen! why they would have me marry my grandfather." And the little lady threw back her head, and with it its world of soft brown curls, and laughed in very glee.

"He will be but twenty-eight, two—no, three days after this coming Christmas. But, dear lady, do leave these screaming, noisy jack-daws and mackdaws, and come and let me dress you in the beautiful new court-dress your guardian sent you this morning."

"You naughty nurse! to abuse my beautiful birds. I have only one jack-daw, and these are my pretty West Indian macaws, not mackdaws, wise nursey. And those are my bright-eyed canaries, and that is—but you will not remember their names, although I have told them to you so often."

"I see some are blue, and some bright red, and I know that little Jenny, who helps you take care of them, loves them as well as you do. But will you not come now and try on your splendid dress? I would have you look your best and prettiest when your cousin comes."

"I know I shall not like him, and if I do not, my guardian will not force me to marry him."

"But your father's will—"

"I will not think of that now, nor will I dress, dear nursey. I will go ride my pony, and gather some of those wild-flowers my guardian loves so well." And away flew the bright, happy little maiden; she herself, of all the glad, sweet wild-flowers that grew among the shades of Fernheath, the gladdest, sweetest, merriest and wildest; and the one of all the rest her guardian uncle loved the best.

Little Dame Hildreth, while she flew about preparing for the reception of Baron Arnhiem and the prince, could not help sadly bemoaning the strange perversity of her young lady, in preferring birds and wild-flowers and ponies to court-dresses and husbands.

The Lady Isoleth soon forgot that she had arrived at the advanced age of sixteen, and that she had to put away childish things, and all about her father's will, and the awful prince. She rode her pony through the wood down to the sea; then ran a race with him upon the beach—the pony playfully allowing his mistress to win. She climbed the highest rocks in search of wild-flowers, and wove the sweet flowers into garlands; at length, recollecting how long she had been gone from home, she mounted her pony and galloped on toward the castle, her head wreathed with holly, and her arms full of flowers. As she entered the avenue there stood her impatient nurse awaiting her.

"My dear, darling young lady, what an age you have been away. We have all been watching—"

"Has he come?"

"Who, the prince?"

"My dear uncle—has he come?"

"Yes, my dearest lady. They both came, Prince Ferdinand and your guardian, soon after you left, and have been here for three long mortal hours waiting for you very anxiously. The prince looks very noble and handsome, and is dressed most magnificently. You must not be disappointed though, dearest lady, for he is somewhat changed."

"Changed! How changed, dear nurse? I have not seen him these six or seven years, ever since, you remember the time, he and my cousin duke, his father, with so many others, went to fight those horrid Turks."

"He looks older, much older than he did—that, though, must be—yes, it must be on account—"

"Older! why you simple, queer little nurse, he is older. Why should he not look—I expect to see him look half as old as Methuselah at least. How shockingly old one must feel if they live to be twenty-eight."

"Yes, he does seem older than I expected to see him—though, to be sure, he has been, for the last seven years engaged in the wars; yes, that must be it. Nothing makes one grow old so fast as fighting. But, dear lady, come, now, and dress, there's a darling. You will have just about time enough before dinner. But where is your bonnet?"

"Up in the branch of a tree, nursey dear. It will make some bird a delightful nest next spring. I lost it getting this curious white flower. Look at it. It grew in an almost inaccessible spot upon the cliff by the sea."

"You are a dear little kid clambering among those ugly rocks. Let me take some of your flowers, your bundle is nearly as big as yourself. The saints preserve us! if there are not your uncle guardian and the prince! And you in such a tattered plight. For the love of Heaven, dear lady, come in here among these bushes until—"

But the little dame had to finish her speech to the winds, for the impulsive Isoleth had sprung from her pony, and was clasped in her guardian uncle's embrace before her nurse was half through beseeching her to hide.

"Why, my dear child, have you turned gipsy? You are as ragged as one, and are as brown as a berry. But I can see through your long, thick curls that the last year has improved you most wonderfully. Let me introduce you to your cousin, Ferdinand of Bernstorf."

Isoleth looked up and beheld—gracious me! He was every day as old as her guardian, and positively had gray hairs. She was sure she saw white hairs among his black curls. She could give him only one glance, for his dark, handsome eyes were fastened searchingly upon her. Her eyes fell beneath his admiring gaze, and fell upon her torn muslin dress—the rocks and briars had paid no respect to it—rather had paid their best respects to it; and, without vouchsafing a word in reply to her uncle or handsome cousin, she sprung, light as a fawn, into her saddle, and was out of sight in the twinkling of an eye.

"What say you, Cousin of Bernstorf, to such a bride as that for the proposed alliance—a wild one, is it not?"

"I like her exceedingly. By the holy mass! but she is the most beautiful creature I ever saw. We will take her to court, she will bewitch us all, old and young. By my faith, but she is—"

"Yes, yes, she is," replied the baron, smiling at Ferdinand's earnestness. I thought she would surprise you. I cannot conceive of any thing one-half so beautiful as she."

"Beautiful! you surprise me! Bless my soul! she is radiant with beauty, and she is the greatest surprise I ever had in my life. We will electrify the whole court with surprise and delight at her wondrous grace and beauty, and—"

"All in good time, noble cousin. You recollect her father's will—that she should remain at Fernheath, neither going from here, nor receiving much company, save her own kinsfolk, until after her marriage with your noble—"

"Yes, yes, I have not forgotten the will. 'So was it nominated in the bond.' It delights me most exceedingly that she is so marvelously beautiful. St. Jerome! but I feel already that I love her as dearly as though she were my own—"

"Good gracious, cousin! You always had a spice of enthusiasm that is delightful and refreshing to me." And the baron laughed right heartily because he was delighted—and the laugh seemed to refresh him. "After all," continued he, as soon as the corners of his mouth had come within speaking distance of each other, "after all, she is but an untrained country-girl; she—"

"Nature, and her own beautiful soul, have given her all the training she needs. Her wild, unconstrained life, has developed her as no court or city life could. That I can see, seeing her as little as I have."

"You think just as I do, dear cousin. My brother's will was a wise one, that kept her thus from the deadening conventionalities of a court life."

"By my soul! how exceedingly lovely she is. She surpasses all my expectations. I recollect her as a little fairy thing of eight or ten. I have not seen her until now—"

"Since just before this last war, full seven years ago."

If Ferdinand of Bernstorf thought the little tattered gypsey Isoleth so inconceivably lovely, his eyes were half blinded with the radiant beauty of the young Countess of Fernheath, as she entered the dining-hall, clad in the shining court-robe her guardian had sent her. Her cousin's dark eyes were fastened upon her with a look of passionate admiration, that caused the bright blood to burn on her face and bosom. Nor did those handsome black eyes scarce leave her during the whole long dinner. As soon as she could release herself she hastened to her only confidante, Dame Hildreth.

She found the little dame kneeling upon the floor, busily engaged in unpacking boxes, while the floor was literally alive with silks, and satins, and laces, and woman's finery.

"See here, my lady—and here—and there! Look what your uncle guardian of Arnheim has provided for your approaching nuptials! And, dear lady, do but look here;" and the eager, proud little dame opened a casket of beautiful pearls—necklace, girdle, coronet, brooch and armlets. This noble present comes from the father of your betrothed. It is to be followed by a still more beautiful set of diamonds."

"These pearls may deck my burial instead of my bridal, for I never will live to wed with him below."

"Why, my sweetest lady!" exclaimed nurse Hildreth, glancing up in surprise at her young mistress's flushed and excited face. "For the love of Heaven, do not talk in that way! What objection can you possibly have to such a noble, handsome, princely prince? He is the oldest son and heir to—"

"Oldest, indeed! He is old enough to be my father's father."

"Mercy on us! Lady Isoleth, you talk wild. I will wager my life he is only twenty-eight, three days after this coming Christmas. He has been in the wars, you know—and war is no gentle nurse. Exposure in the wars has caused him to appear somewhat older than he is. You know, dearest lady, that war—"

"But he is gray—"

"Exposure in the wars—"

"And wrinkled—"

"Exposure in the wars—"

"But there is that about him I never could love, were he as young as—I never can love him—I hate him, and I will not wed him."

"But, my dear, dear, dearest young lady, what will you do?" The thought never entering her head that the Lady Isoleth could do any thing but submit to the will of others; for woman in those times was sought and given in marriage without often consulting her own inclination.

What will I do, dear nurse? Why I will fall on my knees at the feet of my beloved guardian and plead with him. He never refused me any thing; and I know he will grant—"

"But your father's will, dearest lady—"

"Shall be put aside, where his daughter's happiness is at stake."

"Would it may be as you wish, sweetest lady. But I fear. Still he is a right noble prince, and will make a right noble husband."

"Not for me."

CHAPTER III.

THE SURPRISE.

In the saddest of sad moods the Lady Isoleth betook herself to her favorite retreat among the rocks, and there within her own little vine-covered bower, was—not a bird, nor a squirrel, nor her tame deer—but a man! young and wondrously handsome; with a broad, pale, noble brow, and a host of jet-black curls shading it. There was something in his clear, dark eye, so still and serene as it gazed beyond this world, and something in the expression of his fine, manly face, so tender, so almost sad, that made her forget to be afraid of him. She approached him gently, and asked him in a soft voice,

"What are thy meditations, beautiful stranger?"

"I was dreaming of thee!" uttered he, awaking from his reverie, and fixing his dark, earnest eyes full upon the glowing form before him. His glance, so full of passion, so full of tenderness, so fervent, went to her heart and woke it up—that precious little heart that had been sleeping for sixteen long years.

"Of me! How can that be?" asked Isoleth, with a deep blush. "Dost thou know me? Dost thou—'

"One like thee, most beautiful being!"

"One like me—just like me? How strange! What is her name?"

"Whatever is thy name, loveliest, most lovely lady, is hers."

"My name is Isoleth," replied she, with a low voice, and a deep blush.

"Art thou the Lady Isoleth of Fernheath? Art thou? Stupid! that I did not see sooner that thou art! Yes, thou art! And I am happy, most happy, most inconceivably happy that thou art! Ah!" continued he, in a tone of the most rapturous delight, "that my dream and my bride should prove to be one and the same. I am most inexpressibly joyful!"—and the large tears fell from his eyes like summer rain—"most unutterably—and thou, wilt thou love me, and be mine, my glorious, sweetest, loveliest cousin—my most, most beautiful bride!"

"Thy cousin! thy bride! Alas! alas! thy cousin I may be, but thy bride—! They are going to marry me up there at the castle to an old, ugly, cross prince; he is there now, and you cannot know how much I hate him. I will die—"

"The devil they are! Forgive me, sweetest, most beautiful cousin, it is a foolish way we learn of speaking in camps. But, loveliest, do not talk of dying, let the old and the ugly die, but thou—First tell me who this ugly, old, cross prince is, they shall not marry you to any such."

"Why he is not so very ugly—and I do not exactly know that he is cross; but then he is old, very old—yes, very old and very disagreeable—and I never can love him."

"Nor shalt thou—his name, most beautiful?"

"Ferdinand, Prince of Bernstorf."

"Ferdinand, prince of ten thousand devils! I beseech of thee to forgive me once again, sweetest cousin; but thou dost petrify me. Ferdinand, Prince of —— Ah! it must be—yes, yes, it must be so."

"What must be? Thou speakest in riddles, stranger cousin."

"And thou lovest him not, nor dost thou wish to wed him?" asked the stranger, an almost provoking smile just curling his handsome mouth.

"No, no, never—never!"

"Nor shalt thou ever!" exclaimed he, his manner changing to one of serious earnestness. Nor shalt thou ever, dearest, most beautiful—for I will prevent it, I—"

"Thou? Alas! alas! I have been betrothed to him ever since I was an infant. How could my dear father—"

"Dearest cousin, trust to me—wilt thou not? And, dearest, sweetest cousin, love me, and be my beautiful wife. Nay, shake not thy loveliest head. Have I been too hasty in urging my love? I have known thee, and loved thee, for so many years; thou hast, thy beautiful spirit has ever, night and day, been near me, the light of my life; but I have frightened thee by my impetuosity—and thou canst never love me? But, no, thy beautiful eyes look tenderly upon me; and thou wouldst not let me hold this little soft, warm hand, and imprison it within mine, if thou didst hate me. I do not lightly ask that precious boon, thy love. Believe me, it is as I say," continued he, earnestly bending upon her his deep, dark, eloquent eyes—eyes that made her little heart thrill to its very core. "It is as I tell thee, thou hast been my dream by day and by night. See here," and he drew from his bosom a small miniature, and handed it to her—the exact image of—herself. "And now I will tell thee what I never before told mortal being. Just three years ago, after a fatiguing day's fight, I lay in my tent, awake; and thou didst come to me, just as thou now dost appear—a vision of light and purity and glorious loveliness. Whether it was a dream or not, or a trance, I know not; but never since has that radiant vision left me. Thou didst lay thy little soft, white hand upon my fevered brow, and I heard most distinctly, as thy sweet face bent over me, these words: 'Do not love other than me, for I alone, on earth, am destined for thee.' From my earliest boyhood have I loved to use the pencil; and on the next morning I tried, and succeeded in conveying to this bit of ivory the image of that most, most beautiful vision; and I have worn it upon my heart ever since, where I would the loved, deeply, dearly loved and beautiful original might ever be. From then till now have I worn next to my heart that semblance of my nightly, daily dream; but never until now have I been blessed in seeing my dream, living, breathing before me."

How that young heart throbbed and bounded, almost suffocating its loving, lovely owner with the intensity of its joyous emotion, as the earnest tones of that low, passionate voice fell, word by word, into its inmost centre, as the glance of those deeply, deeply loving eyes awoke it to life and love. Her hand lay within his, and by little he drew her more and more closely and warmly to his heart, and by little her head gradually sunk upon his manly breast, her eyes looked up tenderly and trustingly into his and drank in his passionate gaze, as though it were her life. Time flew by them unheeded, each pouring out joy and life into the heart of the other. Their very being melting and mingling each into the other, until each felt that their two lives were one. Nor did he sully those pure, exquisite lips, with one earthly kiss. His soul kissed hers, and her own vibrated to his in trembling unison.

Such moments of intense soul-rapture do not often occur to many of us on earth, for perfect love seeks perfect fulfillment; and in the perfect fulfillment of love is too often the satiety that deadens its finest, most spiritual impulses.

The castle gong sounded, booming heavily through the trees. Isoleth started to her feet like a frightened doe.

"I must go," exclaimed she, "my guardian—"

"Stay one moment, sweetest, I have something to tell thee, that thou must hear."

"I have staid too long already," interrupted she, hastily, "my guardian will be sending out for me—it is already growing dark. Fare thee well;" and she gave him a farewell with her soft, brown eyes that never left his heart—so full of unconscious love was it.

"You will meet me here again to-morrow morning? Promise me at least so much, dearest beloved."

"Yes, yes," and with another glance from her soft, bright eyes, she glided out of his sight.

CHAPTER IV.

SUSPENSE.

"I am glad to see thee safely at home, my dear child. Where hast thou been? Thou knowest I hate to have thee rambling about the castle-grounds after night-fall. I have already sent out to seek thee, and was on the point of going in search of thee myself. But, dear child, if walking at any time will bring thee home with such a radiant, glowing color, I shall not quarrel with the cause or hour. Thou art looking as bright and as happy and beautiful as I hope always to see thee look."

"I was afraid, dear uncle," replied Isoleth, blushing still more deeply, and casting her conscious, love-full eyes to the ground, "I was afraid thou wouldst begin to be uneasy about me, and I hastened—I have no one, dearest uncle, when thou art away, to take such good care of me. I go wandering about among my favorite haunts at my own good will and pleasure, night or day, as it happens."

"The time is coming, eh! sweet Isoleth, when thou wilt have to consult another will save thine own," said the baron, patting her fondly on her soft, white neck.

Ferdinand laughed, and looked very impressed and impressive, and gazed her out of countenance with assured, admiring eyes, as he answered for her,

"Yes, yes, we are waiting only for the goodly company that are to witness the approaching nuptials. Is it not so, fairest lady?"

"The hideous being!" thought Isoleth, without vouchsafing an audible reply. "Is this the one with whom I am to spend my days—but no, it shall not be."

She did the honors of the supper-table with a suffocating throat, with a proud rebellious heart, full of love for one she felt she ought not to love, and full of hate for another that she knew she ought to love. She was absent in spite of herself, and did all manner of queer things that people do, who, for a time, take leave of absence of themselves—answering yes, for no—and no, for yes—attempting to bite a piece out of her little porcelain cup-plate, instead of the cook's snowy cake; pouring her guardian's cup up with cream instead of coffee, and sweetening it with salt instead of sugar. Many other little pleasantries of like nature did she perform, very much to the amusement of her guardian and the hated Ferdinand. The latter made himself exceeding merry at her expense, at the same time showing her every attention and gallantry that he, finished courtier, could devise. Isoleth felt at length completely worried and tired to death, as though she could not for one moment longer, endure the torture of her heart's conflicting emotion.

"You look pale and tired, my beloved child," said her guardian, tenderly taking her little cold, white hand within his. All your beautiful color is gone. I fear that after all your walk, or the excitement, has been too much for you. You had best retire for the night. Shall I ring for Dame Hildreth, or some of your maidens?"

"No, dear uncle, with your permission, I will seek those I wish," answered Isoleth, only too glad to escape from the hated presence into the calm stillness of her own room.

She found the good little dame awaiting her; and to her compassionate ear she poured forth the sorrow and joy of her young heart. The kind-hearted little woman sympathized cordially with her precious foster-child, wishing over and over again that some benevolent fairy would change the beautiful stranger cousin with the hateful old Prince Ferdinand—she had to acknowledge that he did look old—until after the happy wedding was over. "And then how blank and black the prince would look, and how astonished we all would be to find you had married the handsome young man instead of the grumpy old one."

"Now leave me, good nurse, I would be alone. I will entreat my dear uncle on the morrow to release me from this dreaded alliance. He never yet refused a request of mine."

Isoleth quieted herself in the belief that her beloved guardian would certainly grant her petition as soon as she made it known to him. In child-like confidence, therefore, she sunk to her happy sleep, with a pair of dark, loving eyes hovering over her and mingling with her dreams. And never eyes gazed on more gentle sleep or lovely sleeper.

CHAPTER V.

THE APPEAL.

With a buoyant step and a sparkling eye the Lady Isoleth sought her guardian early the next morning. He was deeply immersed in papers and parchments, while huge, formidable-looking books were piled high around him. He nevertheless welcomed his sweet niece with a sudden clearing off of his thought-lined brow, and a fond, affectionate smile.

"Forgive me, dearest uncle, if I have disturbed thy studies; but I would see thee alone, and I feared this might be the only opportunity, as the carriages containing our kinsfolk are even now expected; so nurse Hildreth informed me."

"What would my pet bird have that she seeks her uncle thus early?"

"A boon that you must grant, dearest uncle, for upon it depends my heart's happiness now and forever."

"Name it, my darling Isy—what wouldst thou have, little enthusiast?"

"Release from one I never can love. Oh! my dearest uncle," continued she, fondly twining her soft, white arms around his neck, and lovingly kissing his time-worn brow, "do, for Heaven's sweet love, tell me at once that I need not wed him, for I never can love him—never, never!"

"Bless her little heart, what is the child raving about? Whom dost thou mean, dear baby, by him?"

"Who should I mean, dearest uncle, but my cousin, this Prince Ferdinand. I need not be his wife. I—"

"Thy cousin, Prince Ferdinand!"

"I hate him—I abhor him—I utterly detest him! I never can love him! I never will be his wife! I never—"

"Hold, hold! not so fast; why thou romantic little recluse! thou hast lived alone too much by half. Thy little head is brim full of fancies. Thy tongue is running wild. Thou hatest him! Why what wouldst thou have better? Is he not all a woman could desire? Is he not young and—"

"Young!"

"And handsome, and—"

"Handsome!"

"And is he not a prince? And is he not heir to a powerful, wealthy ducal throne? And will he not take thee to court—the gay, beautiful court; and wilt thou not reign there a queen—a queen of beauty and joy and light—and ere long queen of the throne?"

"All that does not dazzle me, dearest uncle—for what are thrones and splendor where love is not? Oh! dear, dearest uncle, do not press this hated match upon me. Do not doom me to eternal sorrow. Do not—"

"Hoity, toity! Why thou dost talk just as they do in those silly romances. I wager thy head is full of them. Thou hast had bad teachers, child, to permit thee to fill thy poor little brain with such trash instead of useful knowledge. Or is it," said he, fixing his gray eyes searchingly upon her, "or is it that thou hast met some sighing Adonis in the woods? Ha! thou dost blush—have a care, child. There, thou needest not tremble, I will not seek to know thy secret, if secret thou hast. This much, however, know for a certainty, that Prince Ferdinand is destined to be thy—"

"Dearest uncle!" exclaimed the little lady, her beautiful eyes filling with tears, "thou shalt know all—all I have to tell, if thou wilt but deliver me from this—"

"Have done with this folly, Lady Isoleth," and his cold gray eyes sternly regarded her. "It was thy dead father's will that thou shouldst marry thy cousin, Prince Ferdinand of Bernstorf; and thy father's will must and shall be obeyed."

"'Folly!' 'Lady Isoleth!' 'must and shall!' He never before now spoke one unkind word to me." And the weeping Isoleth went with a breaking heart and shut herself in her own room, alone, and locking herself in, she gave unrestrained vent to her passionate grief.

CHAPTER VI.

THE LAST APPEAL.

"I will seek him—yes, he will not refuse my prayer. I will tell him I hate him. He will be only too glad to release me when he knows the depth of hatred I bear him. I will go this moment, for soon will all my gay cousins be here, and then will be the horrid betrothal ceremony—but I will not think of that—"

"Ha! my shy, beautiful cousin, Lady Isoleth!" Ferdinand was in the library, amusing himself with books and prints. "See here, beautiful cousin, I have found a book of rare merit, and beautifully illuminated. I suppose, though," continued he with a quizzical look, "that all the books here and their manifold contents are familiar to thy bright eyes—is it not so?"

"Not exactly all," replied Isoleth, smiling in spite of her sorrow, as she glanced at the endless rows of huge leather-bound tomes, that had not even had the cobwebs dusted from them for a century at least.

"Wilt thou not deign to look over this precious book with me, most beauteous lady? Thy sharp wit may help my slow faculties to comprehend its quaint poetry, and thy glorious eyes will love its finely executed prints."

"I came not to disturb thy meditations," replied she, shrinking from his approaching steps. I came to crave a boon from thee."

"It is granted thee, fairest lady, even before thou dost utter it. But what is it, the most beautiful, most lovely of her beautiful, lovely sex would ask? Be it even unto the half of my kingdom—"

"It is not the half of thy kingdom, but the whole of it, together with thy kingdom's lord, that I would be freed from."

"Thou art pleased to be facetious, most charming Lady Isoleth. Pray explain thyself, that my dull understanding may comprehend thy meaning."

"Ferdinand, Prince of Bernstorf—"

"Yes—"

"Is one that I never, never can love—one that I had rather should see me in the grave ere he shall call me wife."

"Ha! well, loveliest cousin, that is plain, and easy to be understood even by the slowest comprehension. Thou hatest him, dost thou?"

"Most cordially."

"My son thanks thee, fair cousin—and I also, in his name."

"Thy son!"

"Ay, and here he is to thank thee himself. How now, scapegrace! Thou art tardy in paying thy respects to this beautiful, noble lady. Thou shouldst have been here days ago. Even now thy fair cousin was on the point of refusing thee. I tell thee, lad, thou'lt never find a fairer. Courting was not done in this slipshod way when I was a boy."

All this while Isoleth was gazing in mute astonishment upon—yes, she was not mistaken—he was the very one—the very most beautiful being to whom she had given, only the night before, her precious little heart. And those dark, earnest eyes were passionately regarding her, drinking in rapturously her glowing beauty, until her eyes, abashed, sought the floor, unable to bear the light of those intensely loving ones.

"Then thou'rt the Duke of Bernstorf, my father's cousin?" suddenly asked she, of Ferdinand the elder.

"Who else, fairest cousin? Ha! thou didst then think—" a sudden light seemed to break through the chambers of his brain. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed he, "Thou thoughtest that I was the one. I could not wish a fairer, more beautiful bride than thou; but—ha! ha! ha! I have one goodly wife already, who is to be here this very day; and, between you and I, one is more than I can manage, although she is one of the best of her perfect, bewitching sex. Still—So, that was the reason thou wert so shy of me, sweet flower." And the father, Ferdinand, threw himself back in his chair, and gave way to the most uncontrollable bursts of laughter; while Ferdinand, the son, had taken the soft, lily-white hand of his lovely betrothed, and was talking to her in words from his heart's heart.

"I should have told thee all this last evening if thou couldst have waited but one instant longer. I was to have accompanied my father and thy guardian here; but I dreaded so much to see my affianced bride—not dreaming until last evening that my beloved and betrothed were one and the same—that my beautiful dream was a more beautiful reality. If I had come and found the young Countess of Fernheath one that I could not have loved, I should certainly have moved earth and heaven but that I would have had the contract, made by our goodly sires, annulled—or I would have drowned or shot myself. Don't shudder, sweetest, I shall do neither now, unless I am shot by the lightning of your bright eyes, and drowned in the bliss—but, dearest, I love you too dearly to speak nonsense to thee—even love nonsense. Strange, was it not, darling, that I should not have recognized you? It has been many a long year since I saw you a little rosy, romping, fairy thing of only a few bright summers. We have had troublous times since then; war and bloodshed that would—"

"Pardon me, most beautiful cousin, my long laughter hath been rude; but, indeed, thy mistake was most droll. There, sweet cousin, I have done! Thy blushes, however, are exceedingly becoming thy fair face. So thou and my goodly son hast met before—is it not so? And he is not the laggard in love I unjustly deemed him. And now I suppose the best thing for me to do is to take myself off to another world, and resign my kingdom and crown in this for one in the—however, we will arrange all that after the wedding. Let us, meantime, enjoy the present. Ah! here comes thy good uncle with a cloudy brow; something has gone wrong with him—we must have no gloom to-day. And here also comes thundering down the avenue all the goodly old carriages containing our expected kinsfolk."

And here also comes,

CHAPTER THE LAST,

Which I know will delight you, dearest reader, as it containeth the wedding; but most especially will it delight you because it is the last. The wedding was of course a splendid one, and better still, a joyous one. Little Dame Hildreth would let no one but herself fasten so much as a bridal ornament on her beautiful young foster-child. It would be hard saying which moved fastest on the important day, her hands or her tongue.

"Just to think!" exclaimed she, as she clasped those same pearls, that had once been cast aside in scorn, upon her darling—and pure and lovely they shone among her soft, brown curls, and on her snow-white arms and neck, and around her lithe and slender waist—"to think that I could have mistaken Ferdinand, the reigning Duke of Bernstorf, for Ferdinand, the Prince. Really, though, my lady, to look at them, one does not see much difference in their appearance—they are both so handsome and grand-looking. Oh, yes! you see a vast odds in their looks—that's natural! These old eyes, I suppose, are growing dim—but they are bright enough to see that thou art the dearest, loveliest, most beautiful bride that ever the sun shone upon."

"Sic transit gloria mundi."