sought for, and set free, by one so gifted, and
so far above her, as her husband.

"I wish," Helen said, with deep, simple
earnestness, " how I wish I was worthy of my
husband!" '

"Why, Baroness," was the dry answer, " you
are a poetess; all brides are so till they find
what all find. Supposing your husband
unfaithful to you—what then?"

"I should die," said the English bride.
"And you—not that such a calamity can ever
come near either of us—what then?"

"He should die!" said the cold, handsome
woman.

"By the way," said the Duchess, when the
session broke up, " this is tiresome for two
women, when they have once told each other
all their histories" (she had never told hers
to Helen, though). " I shall get some one
to read to us while we embroider. There's a
young English nobleman just arrived, who
knows your husband, he says, and has great
recommendations to mine. While the men are at
their politics, he will be at a loss. He shall
come and read " Macbeth" to us. You know we
understand Shakespeare more deeply in Germany
than you do in England."

Helen had not bargained to find Reginald
installed in the closet of the upright Grand-
Duchess as a daily inmate. But there he was,
next day, with his book; and what was
stranger, the paragon of propriety regarded
him with a covert complacency and open
patronage such as she bestowed on few.

"Aha! You see, Helen, dear," was his opening
greeting, " there's no throwing me off! Where
you go, I follow—the shadow after the sun.
But you need not be afraid of me now, with
your grand old Baron to look up to and take
care of you; and besides, I am a new man.
Now, Madam, if it will give you pleasure to hear
me, I am at your service. My cousin will tell
you afterwards how ill I read, and will make
game of us to the Grand-Duke when he gets tired
of his politics and wants a little change."

Helen did not notice the bile which rose into
the great lady's eye; but she did remark the
unusually gracious smile with which the Grand-
Duchess motioned the English scapegrace to
take his place beside them.

"So my wife has tired you out already with
her church-work," said an unexpected and un-
welcome visitor, who presented himself before
Helen two mornings later, and whom Stiegel
dared not keep out. " Heaven! it was a great
stroke, my wife's laying hands on your cousin
the instant he got here, by way of entertaining
you, and keeping you fast to your sewing. As
I said to that dear old fellow of yours, the
Duchess and not you ought to have married
him, for indeed it would be hard to say whether
the Duchess or he has the better head for con-
trivance. And if that had been the case, I
might . . . . . "

Helen had risen from her chair very coldly,
before her husband came in.

"George, dear old fellow, my better self, I
was just going to tell your adorable wife, that
while you are away we will do something better,
in the way of art, amongst us, than copying
ridiculous old patterns for Saint Prudentia. I have
sent a courier to Munich for Meissner to come
and take your lady's portrait."

"While you are away?" repeated the young
wife, drawing to her husband, and trembling.
"Going away? Going to leave me?"

"It must be so, I fear, for a few weeks,
Helen."

"And I could not go with you?"

"Not without causing me great additional
anxiety. Here you will be safe, in the midst
of friends." (Was there a note of pain in his
voice, as his head turned slightly towards the
Grand-Duke, who professed not to hear; who
did not go; but remained yawning and
arranging his moustache before a glass.) "No,
dearest, I could not wish you to go with me."

She became as pale as snow; but, an instant
afterwards the colour rushed up into her cheek
and brow, for she was recalling (little more than
a child) what she had heard of the Oranienberg
women, who had helped, not hampered, their
lords in times of anxiety.—So her lips were
closed, and she said no more.

The Baron had marked the struggle on her
face. Alas! he had begun to be haunted with
a grey fancy that his wife's words and wishes
did not always keep tune one with the other.
No vulgar jealousy lurked in the idea. He
was, as yet, secure of her duty and loyalty to
him; but what if she had been too hasty—what
if her heart would wander elsewhere—to that
old, beautiful, boy-lover?— . . . . . His fancy
had never reverted to the Prince for a passing
moment, because he knew the Grand-Duke's
folly and Helen's nobleness.

The Grand-Duke, too, had marked the struggle
on Helen's face; and lie, too, came to a conclusion
—suggested by ducal consciousness of his
own resistless charms—that her words and
wishes might not be in tune.

Not one of the Oranienberg women of old
had seen her lord ride to the wars, with a
heavier heart than the heart of the poor, pretty
English bride. But she must not distress him,
even if she were left defenceless, said she to
herself; so she heartened herself up when he was
gone, and, while her heart travelled with him
every hour of every day towards the frontier,
and counted the moments between the arrival
of courier and courier, sent lovingly back to
her with words of cheer,—she showed no dim
eyes, no pale cheeks;—she did not parade her
loneliness by rushing to court, nor her misgivings
by staying away. But, after a few evenings, it
became rather fearful to dance with the Grand-
Duke her one dance (the Grand-Duke would
fain have danced seven with her), when the eyes
of his wife had to be passed; while to take refuge
with the Grand-Duchess was impossible, so
perversely did that lady summon to them Reginald,
and so distastefully did he creep nearer and