monk, who will say his prayers, while an- | fessor? With pleasure. All goes well at other foolish little monk tires himself to Regenstein?" But love was not so padeath as he rings the monastery bell. The tient a usurer. pious folks in Gröden are delighted that young Prussia should desire such an edifying toy, believing that he prays, not laughs, over it, and supply it with the same fervour as crucifixes to the bigger children of France, Bavaria, and Tyrol.

One morning, after putting the last touch to his famous "Holy Family" with the baroness for Madonna, hope whispered courage to his heart. After all, why should he fear? He was greater in the aristocracy of art than the baroness in the aristocracy of birth: marriage would be neither presumption on his side nor condescension on hers. He thought over all her gracious ways to him, the pleasure she obviously took in his society, their sympathy in heart and mind. He must put his fate to the touch sooner or later, and why not now? She must have read that he loved her in every look and

How does young Gröden feel amongst these billions of dolls, harlequins, praying priests, carts, hobby-horses ? He! why he will have nothing to do with them, except as the means by which he can learn to gain his own bread. No; great stately Dame Nature takes him, or her, into her nursery, where she has better toys. Little rosy-cheeked, black-eyed Kina feels wonderfully elated in a hat formed by a spread-word; and if she favoured him, as he ing cabbage-leaf; and sturdy Seppl, two years old, seated on a clod in the mountain stubble-field, drives with that hazel switch-whip of his, with its blue-cotton streamer, as real a yoke of oxen as his father's, though the stranger sees it not. Or what royal child ever beheld dissolving views so marvellous as young Gröden does? When the sun begins to sink, the vast mass of the Campo Lungo, and the Lang Kofel burn, palpitate like living flames, irradiating the darkening valley. The sun has disappeared, the flames turn to glowing embers, then fade into an ashy hue; the great mountains are congealed spectres; but the whole firmament blazes, as the northern lights are said to blaze, and the heavens are filled with waves of glory.

From Blackwood's Magazine.
LEFT-HANDED ELSA.

XIII.

In the course of every tale of real life there arrives a period when matters develop themselves eventlessly, and without any landmark to denote the unhalting process of time. It is as needless, as it would be impossible, to chronicle all the interviews that took place between Max Brendel and his strange patroness. Let it suffice to say that they gradually, but not slowly, led to the one inevitable end. Max loved the baroness more than he loved his own soul and found himself in debt up to the ears.

His chief creditor, the broker and money-lender, Herr Elias, was not impatient: he only used to grin and say, "A little longer, eh, eh, my good Herr Pro

could not doubt, she must have set him down as the most timid or as the coldest of lovers not to have opened his heart to her long ago. It was on a glorious morning of early spring, bright with the fragrant sunshine that sinks deep and calls forth blades of love even where none is sown, that he threw down his palette, and, following a conscious and deliberate impulse, found himself at Regenstein.

But, as ill luck would have it, for the first time during the whole course of his acquaintance with his patroness, her French femme de chambre told him she was engaged, and asked him to wait a while. He was shown, accidentally of course, into the ante-chamber of the baroness's favourite boudoir. The inner door, however, stood ajar, so that one of the innumerable mirrors wherewith the whole castle was lined reflected to the eyes of Max all that passed within. The companion of the baroness was no other than the little old parchment-skinned man with the croaking voice, who had been foremost in awarding the travelling-prize to number five. How inexpressibly far off that seemed!—and yet, far off as it was, he would have been more or less than man had not the sunshine of to-day sent a pang through his heart. Memory, as well as hope and love, is awakened by the fragrance of such sunshine.

But it was too late now, even though conscience whispered that the full voice of the new love was not worth a whisper of the old.

He was not a willing listener to a conversation that was not intended for him. He did not, like Sleinitz, deliberately put his eye or ear to the door, but he took for granted that the baroness was aware of his presence, and he was certain that she

had no secrets from him. He made a| noise with his chair to warn her that he was within ear-shot, but it made no difference, and the talk buzzed on. The first few words he did not hear; but suddenly his hearing was sharpened by catching his

own name.

"Max Brendel, of course," said the belllike voice of the baroness. "Max Brendel, yes but not of course," croaked the other. "Not of course, by any means. If we had not thought of Max Brendel, I should not be here. But, for my own part, I am no longer disposed to give carte blanche to Max Brendel."

more.

“They think

"I understand," she said. him a man of one idea." "Precisely, madam. Now, as a rule, the public likes a man with one idea. It can't comprehend a man's having two. Its comedian must stick to comedy; its tragedian to tragedy; its pianist, who has once made a hit by playing variations with one finger, must never use two fingers; its singer, with a high C, must sing nothing but high C's; its painter, who has once painted blue, must paint everything blue, or be hissed down. That's the division of labour. One man paints blue, another red, another yellow, and the public likes it better than if the same man painted all three. But there is a limit to all things, and to that limit Max Brendel has come. He not only harps on the same string — that's nothing but he has worn out the string he harps on. We are getting disappointed with Max Brendel, madam — bitterly disappointed; and we won't have our series of frescoes spoilt by a howling chorus of 'Oh, that's a Brendel; he can paint yellow-but a grand historical fresco, that's not his line.' So I came down to ask him for a design; and if - pardon me, madam, if I seem blunt, if he gives me the yellow-haired woman again, he is done for."

--

Max felt himself turn cold from head to foot. Nobody knew better than himself that he was in truth an impostor with but one idea, and that not his own.

"Would you like to see Herr Brendel at once?" asked the baroness. "I believe he is here."

And what is wanted?" asked the baroness. "I don't quite understand." "A subject for a fresco. One of a series, representing the great themes of German history. We need variety in treatment unity in plan. I have undertaken to furnish two designs — I flatter myself that a series of national historical pictures without my hand would be like the English tragedy of Hamlet without the titlerôle. My colleague has undertaken three But we must have a third hand." "And that must be "So my colleagues said to the committee Max Brendel. But the committee shook their heads. We are sick of your Max Brendel,' they said. 'His first picture was the revelation of a new genius. His second was its confirmation. His third was a chef-d'œuvre. But tell us honestly, they said to me, 'if that great genius of yours has ever really painted more than one picture in all his days? Is it not'-pardon me, madam, I quote the committee'is it not forever and ever the same eternal woman with the yellow hair? She has done duty now for Clio, for Thusnelda, for Justice, for St. Catherine, in short, for as many pictures as he has painted, all as like one another as a family of peas in one shell. He puts a costume on a lay figure, paints it, and then sticks on at top his stock head with the yellow hair. The journals,' said the committee, are beginning the same cry; and though art-critics are no authorities when they speak for themselves, they show how the wind blows. When the fresco is fin- "You did not notice that gentleman ? " ished, people must be struck by it in the she asked. "That is another great man right way: they mustn't only say, "Oh, – I made him, old as he is, just as I made that's a Brendel; that's his yellow-haired you. But he is a man of many ideas, and woman: we've seen all that before, thank has done me credit, though he never you." Max Brendel has painted himself painted me, my own self, as you have out; we've had enough of him.'' done."

6

The baroness always at once reflected everybody and everything. She did so

now.

"Thank you, madam, but I would rather call on him," croaked this raven voice of public opinion. "I am charmed to have found you at Regenstein, and will not fail to renew my respects to you before I return to Munich."

He passed out through the ante-chamber; but he was near-sighted, and did not recognize Max, who, since his former judge last saw him, had altered in many ways.

Max entered the boudoir gloomily. The baroness did not smile upon him as of old.

"You need not tell me what he said," answered Max; "I heard it all. But oh, baroness, I did think you would have de

know not- but she has many whims. Farewell, Herr Brendel; and let the fresco be your chef-d'œuvre of chefs-d'œuvre. Much depends on it- more perhaps than you know."

"Much indeed," thought Max; "more than you can know."

And so, once more, he set himself to create an original idea.

Alas! no force of will was able to project another baroness upon a looking-glass again. That wonder belonged to the days when he had vowed his soul to gain Elsa. His creative power was just as barren as of old, even when spurred by the hope of this second and greater prize. He knew that without the baroness he was nothing, and despaired even before he fairly began. Fame, wealth, and love had no longer to be acquired but to be retained by his performance of a feat of which he was simply incapable. Not only would he be denounced by the parchmentskinned old raven to a hundred jealous rivals as a one-ideaed impostor who could only paint from a single model and a lay figure, but he would lose that to which glory was nothing. He no longer tried the frantic experiments that he had put in practice on the former occasion - he was wiser now, and had proved their vanity. It is no use spurring a horse that has no legs to go. One thing he could do now that he could not do then, and only one-he poured out and drank down a huge goblet of Rhone wine, whose far-reaching influence would have called genius from a rock of granite had it contained one spark of true fire to set free. But there was not a spark, and the draught only heated without fertilizing his brain.

and I have sold my truth, my conscience, for an old-looking-glass and a dream."

"Eh, eh! my good Herr Max! Goes all well at Regenstein?"

"Who admitted you, pray? Did they not tell you I am engaged—in study?" "Pardon me, my good Herr Max. I did not know."

"Then you do now. Please leave me alone. When I want you I know the way to the Adler-Gasse."

"That I am not so sure, my good Herr Max. I prefer for once to come to you. Ah, it is a long, long, long time since you have come to see old Elias; a very long time. But meantime interest has a knack of trotting and compound interest of galloping, till-well, well, my good Herr Max, I must live, and, if you please, I have called to let you see my little bill. 'Tis as low as may be, my good Herr Max, on my word."

"Interest-compound interest your little bill? Confound your little bill! Haven't we renewed everything?”

"That was long, long ago, my good Herr Max, and when all was well at Regenstein."

"What do you mean, you old rascal? What have my dealings with you to do with Regenstein?"

"Eh, eh! my good-nothing at all. I only want a trifle on account of my little bill."

"Well, let me see how we stand, then. Fifty thousand gulden! Potztausend noch e' mal! Do I owe fifty thousand gulden? Impossible!"

"Even so do things mount up, my good Herr Max. Fifty thousand gulden. That is all."

"Then I can't pay you a penny. I've got nothing to give and nothing to say."

"Then it troubles me, my good Herr Max; but I will take some little portable article you can spare."

"Take anything you like, but for heav

"Am I a man?" he thought, as he passed backwards and forwards before the mirror that now reflected nothing but his own form; "and do not the proverb-mongers say that what man has done man may do? Is anything more easy in this world of fools than to keep even a false reputa-en's sake leave me alone." tion that has once been gained? Why should I be an exception, when the life of my soul hangs upon the preservation of my fame? Did I not once say I would sell my soul?" he added, with a bitter smile. "I think the fiend heard me and this is how he has kept his word. I "Take the accursed thing and behave gained all I longed for wealth, gone."

"Thank you, my good Herr Max. I will."

The broker's eyes wandered round the room and at last fell on the mirror.

"I think I will take that to-day," he said.

fame, and-and-love; quickly come, "For twenty gulden. Now you owe quickly gone. The cup is dashed from me only forty-nine thousand nine hundred my lips, and I have won all to lose more. and eighty. To-morrow I will come Ah, she is right to impose tests and con- again." ditions upon a miserable impostor like me! Adolf Meyer was right this is sorcery,

"Twenty gulden! why, I gave you five hundred."

"Eh, eh! my good Herr Max! But | out glory. It was the natural impulse of think of the wear and tear- - it is not what a weak soul filled to the brim with intense it used to be. I shall not sell it for more than twenty-one." With a low bow, he carried off the looking-glass under his