Chapter III: Part 3

Gwynneth and Llewelyn now fixed their abode on the giant slopes of Penmaenmaur, and often at sunset the father was seen pointing up the golden pathway and watching with his little son for the first pale ray of the Evening Star.

Rhiwallon grew and flourished apace. His was a fearless nature. He loved the sea, the hills, the birds, and the flowers. His childish brow only became clouded with pain or sorrow for the sufferings of man and beast, which even in earliest boyhood he ever yearned to alleviate.

When still an infant he was often found with a sweet smile upon his countenance, and in after years could recall the dim vision of an angel form that bent over and lulled him in his dreams, but was ever absent when he awoke. Gwynneth and Llewelyn were long spared to foster his awakening talents, and ere they were gathered to their fathers the name of Rhiwallon had become a household word, for the sweet songs of the gentle bard are to this day remembered and sung wherever the Cymri tongue is known and loved.[1]

[1] Founded on an old Welsh legend. There is a submerged
half-built castle between Penmaenmaur and Penmaenbach, which
can be seen at low tides.

EOTHWALD: THE YOUNG SCULPTOR.

It will not surprise you, dear children, to learn that after Hans Christian Andersen wrote his touching story of "The Little Mermaid," the whole world sighed with a strong desire to behold the true likeness of that loving and lovely heroine.

Painters and sculptors wandered anxiously by the sea-shore; not alone in Denmark, but in many other countries, seeking thus to obtain a glimpse of one of the mermaidens--whose whole race has been for ever immortalized by the gentle Dane--longing to depict on canvas, or to carve in marble, the fair lineaments of the faithful sea-child who gave her voice and her life for the Prince she loved.

Now for successive ages it has been well known among the denizens of the ocean that trouble and misfortune must certainly fall on the mermaiden who should visit the shore too frequently, or permit her likeness to be taken in any form whatsoever.

Long, long ago, the most beautiful of the sea-nymphs rose in her gambols to the surface of the billows; and as in those days mermaids wore no tails, and were consequently unable to steer themselves properly, she was carried on shore by the force of the waves, where such was the confusion caused by her charms, that gods and goddesses themselves quarrelled about her, and artists in their enthusiasm neglected everything else to depict in all its bewildering beauty the sea-born loveliness of "Aphrodite." Great was the indignation excited by the appearance of this fair interloper in the aerial courts, and "Hera," the Queen of Olympus, persuaded her husband, the awful "Jove," to issue a decree ordaining that henceforth and for evermore all mermaidens should bear long tails; thus confining their dangerous influence to their own native element; and furthermore forbidding them, on pain of severest penalties, to hold communication with the inhabitants of earth or sky.

Though centuries have rolled away, this dread command is still remembered and obeyed, and hence the extreme difficulty experienced by those whose artistic longings had been kindled afresh by the glowing descriptions of the sweet Danish writer.

One golden evening during the brief but glorious northern summer, the young sculptor, Eothwald, after a weary day of unavailing search for the far-famed mermaidens, threw himself down on the soft grass by a river's side, and lulled by the soft ceaseless murmur of the rushing waters, sank into deep dreamless sleep. As the drowsiness of fatigue wore itself away, he became gradually conscious of ravishing strains of music, and rousing himself half awakened to listen to the dulcet sounds, he still heard the harmonious cadences of some stringed instrument swell and thrill in tones of unearthly beauty.

Eothwald arose softly from his grassy couch, and stole noiselessly along. Keeping himself carefully concealed behind rocks and brushwood, he followed the sound, till at a bend of the stream he beheld the young river god Naecken, seated at the entrance to a grotto, playing and singing to his harp strains of heaven-born music; while, bathed in the evening sunshine, and with their arms lovingly intertwined, there on the surface of the water, in rapt attention, floated the lovely mermaiden sisters, Duva and Himinglaefa, unsuspicious of danger, and forgetful of all else, for the spell of love's magic numbers hung over them and rivetted their attention.

The inspired Naecken continued his impassioned lay; the blushing Himinglaefa, to whom his song of homage was addressed, shook her long chestnut tresses until they formed a veil around her, and laid her soft cheek on the shoulder of the innocent Duva, who, childlike, wondered at her sister's excess of emotion.

A while Eothwald remained motionless, overwhelmed by the beauty of the scene, but soon the surpassing loveliness of the sea-sisters fired his artistic mind with keen ardour; he felt within himself that could he but reproduce these enchanting forms in marble, he would die content. He resolved to seek his home, and return thence provided with all the necessary materials for working. He had noticed during his wanderings, not far from this very spot, a cave, where he fancied he could work undisturbed. The clay by this river being famous for its plastic properties, it would be easy for him to model by day concealed from all beholders, and at eventide to steal forth unobserved, and gain new ideas of beauty from the fair sisters now before him.

As he silently pondered and matured this plan, a silvery voice was heard afar, and, quick as light, Duva and Himinglaefa sprang away through the darkening waters at their mother's call, while Naecken, carrying his harp with him, abruptly disappeared within the shadowy entrance of the grotto.

Darkness came suddenly on; the river, cold and black, ran past Eothwald with sullen murmurings; the wild owl swept close by where he stood, brushing his face with her wing, and uttering her desolate cry. The startled sculptor well-nigh missed his footing, and only escaped falling into the stream by catching hold of the boughs above his head. But undismayed and undaunted, he groped his way successfully out of the wood, and then hastened cheerfully homewards, light-hearted and content; for what were darkness, danger, or fatigue? The quenchless fire of genius burned within his breast; the long dreamt-of ideal was no longer a faint, far-off vision, but had become to him a reality of dazzling beauty.

Ere daylight returned Eothwald had been to his home and informed his old housekeeper that he was bound for a few days' trip into the country. He put together his working tools, and having at her earnest request taken some provisions in his knapsack, he swallowed a hasty meal, and before the sun was yet high in the heavens, was already ensconced in the cave and fast asleep in its welcome shade, after all the fatigue and excitement of the last few but eventful hours.

And now night after night, sheltered by brushwood, rock, and fern, the enthusiastic youth engraved on his heart the exquisite beauty of those fair denizens of the sea; nay more, in the ardour of his pursuit he became himself enamoured of the lovely childlike Duva. Often while Naecken and Himinglaefa held sweet converse together, their companion unobserved would float silently nearer and nearer to the shore. Sometimes she amused herself by twining long wreaths of the ferns and creepers which hung over the river bank. Sometimes she laughingly lifted small silvery fish from their holes beneath the bank; then remembering that air to them was death, she would place them gently once more in their native element, and smiling, watch their playful movements when they frisked around her, as if in gratitude, before they swam away. Sometimes flinging her long tresses of hair over the grass by the river margin, clasping her hands above her head, reposing half on land and half on water, she would lie with all a maiden's dreamy thoughts of the unknown future, her clear blue eyes fixed on the starry vault above, her every action a study of grace and poetry, until Himinglaefa's soft summons roused her, when springing again into life and motion, the agile Duva excited new admiration in the sculptor's mind as with the swiftness of a startled bird she flitted across the water and disappeared with her sweet sister beneath the briny wave.

It is not given to me to say how Duva and Eothwald first became acquainted; but it is certain that before the young sculptor had spent many nights by the water's side, that innocent child of the sea grew to know what it was that made the long hours pass so swiftly to Himinglaefa and Naecken, when they were together; for a feeling hitherto unknown sprang up within her own simple breast, and taught her to welcome with beating heart the appearance of her new friend.

What long happy hours they passed together by starlight and moonlight on that river brink! How endless were the words they had to say to each other in those stolen interviews! and yet, though all seemed so untroubled, a secret care disturbed the peace of either loving bosom. It is true that Duva had attempted to lighten hers by confiding it to her lover, for early in their acquaintance she told him that she longed to whisper in her mother's ear the story of her Eothwald, and to find in the majestic Ran's motherly bosom a soft pillow whereon to still the flutterings of her awakened heart; but in tones of displeasure the young sculptor chid her childlike impulse, and went so far as to threaten that should she ever breathe to her family the fact of his existence, he could never seek her more.

Chilled and frightened at hearing Eothwald address her in accents such as he had never used before, the gentle Duva tearfully promised to comply with his request, and to conceal from all the knowledge of her earthly lover. But the concealment preyed on her mind, and though in his presence she forgot all save the bliss of being beloved, yet she had for ever lost the joyous serenity of her early youth; while the very look which roused her watchful mother's anxiety, gave her in her lover's eye, a more etherial air of languor and grace.

Eothwald's secret care was widely different: he knew that his Duva might in some terrible unknown manner have to suffer for his love; but his anxiety was lest he should not succeed in obtaining her perfect likeness, and thence partly came his reluctance to allow her to speak of him to her people. He made sure they would remind her of the perils of holding intercourse with mankind, and probably put a complete stop to their clandestine meetings, now only carried on under the shadow of the more legitimate attachment of Himinglaefa and Naecken.

While the inexperienced Duva only knew and felt she loved, the more worldly Eothwald gazed upon her with a critical and artistic eye, and often sent a chill of cold presentiment to her very heart's core, when to her gentlest words he vouchsafed no answer; but, absently scanning her perfect form, would strive to compare and calculate in his mind the accuracy of his progressing model in the cave.

He found it easy to obtain Duva's compliance with all his requests save one; but it was for long in vain that he besought her to leave her watery home. Many a time and oft they parted almost in anger, and the poor little sea-nymph more than once weepingly entreated him sooner to quit her for ever, and go back to his own kith and kind. But Eothwald always returned afresh to the charge, for, besides his real attachment to the gentle maid herself, he knew that could he but once behold her fair proportions near him in the cave, he could successfully finish his now nearly completed model; and, by imparting to it those life-like touches which alone it required, he would be enabled to give to the world for the first time the perfect image of a mermaiden. With true artistic fervour he forgot his mortal love in the eager pursuit of his immortal art, and, brought completely to a standstill by the harassing intensity of his longing to have the living form at hand to aid him in his work, he grew so unkind towards Duva that with saddened heart the poor child promised to comply with his prayer, and arranged to accompany him through the wood the following night, when the yellow harvest moon would reign in her fullest beauty.

Words cannot paint the overflowing sorrow that oppressed the pale mermaiden's heart that eventful day as she joined her parents and sisters, for what an inward voice told her, was the last time. Old Agir, her father, gathered her to his bosom, and pressed his little Duva to tell her trouble, but with a forced smile she first nestled closer to that protecting shoulder and then sprang half sobbing away, and they thought she grieved over the approaching bridals of Naecken and Himinglaefa and the prospect of losing her favourite sister.

The wild young Kolga blew through her shell, and in her efforts to cheer Duva made such a bubbling amid the water, that people passing in boats far above the sea-king's palace, paused on their oars to watch the agitated surface and thought they had discovered a new ocean spring.

Haefring and Blodughadda caressed their little sister and playfully asked her to choose whether they should all wear coral or pearls at Himinglaefa's wedding, but with trembling lip she turned away, unable to trust her voice in answer to their laughing affection, and for the first time they deemed their pet Duva was sullen. Ah! how little they knew the aching throbs of pain that strangled her sweet voice and silenced their sorrow-stricken playmate.

At last the hour of sunset drew near. Together, as usual, Himinglaefa and Duva rose to the surface of the darkening ocean, and soon were greeted by the entrancing strains of Naecken's harp. Slowly Duva disengaged herself from her sister's embrace and lingered long near the companion, till now the sharer of every joy or care. But time's relentless wheel rolled on, and through the woods by the river's brink gleamed the golden radiance of the harvest moon, as the mermaiden at length approached the shore where her lover kept anxious watch. With joyful eagerness Eothwald greeted her, and in low trembling tones whispered loving thanks into her ear; even then Duva would have withdrawn her consent, but the impatient Eothwald, without pausing, threw his strong arms around her, raised his beloved burden from the glittering water, and bore her swiftly towards the cave.

A feeling of deadly sickness came over the little sea-maid as she was thus lifted from her native element, but the soothing words of her lover infused new life into her fainting frame, and in safety they reached the cave, where Eothwald joyfully deposited his lovely charge on the couch he had so long prepared for her use.

Uttering but scant welcome the sculptor flew rapidly to his work, for already fatigue and exhaustion clouded the sweet eyes, that were wont to sparkle so merrily, and spread a new languor over the limbs of his exquisite model. With passionate energy Eothwald moulded his plastic clay, completely forgetting in his ardour the unwonted position of the sea-king's daughter, and her need of watchful tenderness.

A stranger in a new and untried world--a timid maiden strayed for the first time far beyond the protecting care of parents and brethren, the little Duva reclined amazed upon her fragrant bed of leaves. Strange thrills were sent through her by the strong night perfumes exhaled on every side from earthly leaf, tree, and flower.

At last she was upon that land about which from childhood she had dreamed, with an eager desire to explore its forbidden mysteries. But she thought not of these things, her whole heart was absorbed in Eothwald. The young sculptor no longer gazed on her with the melting eye of love. By the flickering light of the torch which shed its ruddy glow over the cave, she could perceive the artist's glance now fixed on his clay figure, now turned upon herself with a searching look of restless dissatisfaction due in reality to the shortcomings of his own handiwork, but which chilled and saddened Duva's sensitive heart.

Again and again the gentle maiden nerved her voice to speak, but faintness overpowered her, and a dreamless sleep already fanned her with its over-shadowing wings. Eothwald's form swam magnified before her eyes, and then vanished altogether amid the mist of gathering tears. The cave grew dim--the little sea-child again beheld the palace of her father--her lovely sisters waved a mute welcome through the changing atmosphere. With the tremulous sigh of a repentant child that has erred, but returns with glad sorrow to fling itself on its mother's breast, Duva, forgetting all save that joyful vision, stretched forth her innocent arms with a low murmur of tenderness, and a gesture of delight.

"Can you not remain as I placed you?" impatiently muttered the sculptor, as the sudden movement of Duva's arms altered her whole position, and lost irretrievably the graceful attitude he was striving faithfully to immortalise. Even as he spoke, something about his beloved alarmed him; he rushed across the cave, but ere he could touch her, Duva's fair form had disappeared--she was gone!

The red torch flickered high, and suddenly expired. The moon's ray, cold and pale, penetrated within the cave, and lo! upon the spot so lately pressed by the enchanting figure of the poor little stranger, pure and transparent in the silvery light, glistened a white pearly shell, while a tiny rivulet stole silently from beneath it, and trickled into the moonlit glen without.

Eothwald threw himself wildly on his knees, and felt the couch all over in vain--in vain!--then in desperation he fled out into the wood and searched for his lost love, breathing her name in fondest accents through the silence of the night, but alas! awakening no response from the desolate solitudes around him. Wearied and heart-broken he returned at length from his fruitless errand, and sank into heavy slumber.

Hours had passed unheeded away, when with troubled recollection he awoke and sprang to his feet. Gradually he remembered that in his dreams Duva had again appeared to him. With bitter tears she sorrowfully told him that his own thoughtless actions had parted them. He first tempted her by mortal love to deceive and leave her fond parents and her beloved home; then as he moulded his clay from her beautiful form, in the self-abstraction of genius, he half forgot her sacrifice, and neglected her tender spirit. Wounded and unable to struggle against her altered condition of life without the comforting care of her mortal lover, she had fallen a victim to the law that ruled supreme over herself and her kindred, and lost her visible shape, which became again transformed into the water, whence it originally sprang. With streaming eyes she waved a long farewell, then, lovely as a morning dream, faded from his view.

Eothwald flew back to his work with fierce energy; he felt indeed a high soaring ambition. He yearned to represent worthily, to this and future generations, the fair lineaments, the tender immortal beauty of the sea-king's daughter, who had given him her simple young heart, and whose affection he had so rudely requited. A solemn inward voice told him he had no time to spend in useless remorse, or in unavailing lamentation. Death's shadowy finger already beckoned him to the "silent land." Grief had snapped the first chord of life's hitherto sweet melody, and his days on earth were numbered.

He returned in a short space to his native city. His half-finished work was slowly removed to the studio. There by day and by night he laboured almost ceaselessly, and wove into a wild poetical dream the young life of the fair Duva and her family, as she herself in days gone by had frequently, half romancing and half in earnest, described it to him.

He designed a lofty fountain, and upon its six sides placed in groups of wondrous imagery her parents, their nine lovely daughters, and the young river-god Naecken, whose strains had first led him to his beloved. As in his lonely studio he ceaselessly toiled, he wrote down at intervals this explanation of his labours--that to all futurity might be known the names and history of those whose divine beauty he thus strove to commemorate.[2]

[2] The description of the different groups represented on
the fountain, is taken from a beautiful work of art, designed
and executed by Molin, a young Swedish sculptor of great
promise, now dead.

"Agir, the ocean god, who hates mankind, I represent in the prime of life, with a long flowing beard, which he holds back with one hand, in the other he grasps a sceptre. Enthroned on a gigantic shell, and planting his foot on a dolphin, his handsome features wear an expression of proud disdain.

"When the winter has passed (as our Northern poets have sung) and the May sun melts the ice, the ships in the harbour lift their anchors ready to sail, and only the wind is wanting. Thereupon Agir (who delights in punishing the pride of mankind by robbing them of their treasures--taking husbands from their homes, their wives, and their children, and drowning the mourners in floods of bitter tears) calls to his youngest daughter Kolga to begin the sport.

"In the next shell-like division of the fountain, I place Kolga, who, with short rough hair and hoydenish action, distends to the full her rosy cheeks as she blows through the valves of her shell a soft, seductive wind, sufficient to swell the sails, and tempt the ill-fated ships to sea. Above her, shrouded in her long veil, is the mysterious and majestic Ran (Agir's princely consort, and the anxious mother of his many children). She encourages Roenn, her second youngest, who gently and dreamingly along the blue ripples stirs the first breath on the calm waters. Haefring, Unn, and Bylgia, with the little water-elves and sprites, help to raise the swelling seas until the waves are mountains high.

"Then the hard-hearted and vindictive Boara (once scorned and deserted by a mortal lover) crushes the prows to atoms. She delights in the destruction of human handiwork, and is therefore portrayed with a sternly beautiful though cruel countenance. Next Agir calls on Blodughadda, enveloped in her long flowing tresses, to descend through the deeper waters and secure the ships' rich treasures, for no lock or key any longer protects them.

"But the fond father misses his favourite children, Himinglaefa and Duva; he loudly calls on Ran to tell him where they are. 'Alas,' answers his queen, 'our daughters are held captive in the web of Naecken; up there, on the fresh water-stream, they float, like one charmed, listening to his melodious song. I have begged and threatened, but all in vain. Methinks one or both of them is befooled by first love.'

"Then Agir arose in fearful rage, calling upon his remaining daughters to entice Naecken forth from the precincts of his grotto (which, being in fresh water, was beyond the sea-king's domain) into the deep ocean, there to take him captive, and deliver their sisters from his thraldom.

"So they all float on, displaying their charms like roses and lilies playing on the waters: their beautiful dishevelled hair, their graceful forms, their coral chains, their strings of pearls, triumphantly making sure of enticing the hapless youth into the salt waters. But no sooner have they reached the entrance to the grotto, than behold! a youth, divinely beautiful, is seen. Harp in hand, he sings a soft, melancholy strain with the purest of voices. The beauteous sisters, scarce moving, tarry on the heaving waters, and listen, entranced, to his heart-thrilling song.

"Awakening from his own love-dreams as he marks the approach of Himinglaefa's lovely sisters, the young river-god sings of his happy youth, when amid green meadows, and under verdant trees, he listened to the melodies of birds, and learnt from them the sweet art of song--until, restless and eager for change, he wandered forth from his early home into the wide world, with endless longing for the unattainable. To punish his presumption, he was at length condemned only to exist in water, and became the genius of running streams. Thus he pours out his lament in strains so moving, that even the wild swan is arrested in her flight, and the daughters of Agir, deeply enthralled, heedless of their parents' call to action, remain motionless before the grotto, allowing ships and mariners to sail by in perfect calm.

"At length, Agir and Ran, angry and impatient, hasten towards them, when, enchanted like their children, by Naecken's exquisite lay, they also remain to listen, forgetful of the time and of the passing hours, till daylight breaks suddenly upon them. The relentless laws of fate forbidding their escape (if found within fresh water at sunrise), they all then become spell-bound."

Such was the description Eothwald wrote of his wondrous fountain, on which Naecken still dreams on, harp in hand, singing of the days of yore. The beautiful Himinglaefa leans forward, modestly drawing her long tresses across her white shoulders, drinking in, with downcast eyes, every intonation of her betrothed. The child-like Duva, adorned as when the sculptor first beheld her, with long strands of priceless pearls intertwined on hair, neck, and bosom, raises herself from the water in the attitude he had studied a thousand times, and half surrounds her beloved sister with her arm, listening intently, as on that well-remembered evening, to Naecken's heart-thrilling music. No shadow of future sorrow clouds Duva's fair brow; but moulded in all the fresh innocence of her dewy youth, she remains to this hour the loveliest mermaiden that ever gladdened mortal eye.

The shell she left upon the couch of leaves, the artist introduced again and again in his labour of love, and indeed took from its shape the designs for the six sides of his fountain, the figures on which were the size of life.

At last the story of Duva's early life was given. Raised from ocean, cavern, and grotto by Eothwald's genius, her family were immortalized by his art. The sculptor's task was completed. In a paroxysm of agony, he fell on his knees as he realized that though instinct with life his inspired work arose in all its chill perfection before him, yet the living, loving, lovely mermaiden would never more greet him with her warm, shy smile, and her low, tender voice.

At daybreak the old housekeeper came to light the studio fire; for it was now winter-time, and the snow lay thick upon the ground. By the first dim ray of light she descried Eothwald kneeling before his finished sculpture. Her heart misgave her; he was her foster-child--dear to her as her own. She stumbled forward and touched his arm; it was cold and motionless as his own marble figures. Then a loud cry of grief told the tale of death. Eothwald was no more. His immortal spirit had fled. Whether in the regions of the unknown invisible world he may once more meet and clasp his Duva to his breast by the blessed waters of Paradise, we cannot tell, but such may be the merciful will of that loving Father who watches unceasingly over the creatures of his hand, and feels a divine sympathy in their sorrows.

One of Eothwald's hands rested on the word Duva, which he had finished chiselling beneath his beauteous beloved. In his other hand was found, fast clasped--so fast indeed that they could not remove it from his stiffened fingers--a gleaming white pearly shell.

FIDO AND FIDUNIA.

Once within a deep and gloomy forest there dwelt a lonely maiden. She had never known any companionship but that of nature, animate and inanimate. She loved the birds, the shy playful squirrels, and all the various animals, which having always known her there, friendly and harmless, regarded her in their turn, with trustful affection.

It made no difference in their feelings towards the young girl that she was not beautiful. Her thick sandy hair hung in coarse straight elf locks on her shoulders. Her skin looked rough, and her features were not prepossessing. But these poor ignorant creatures only noticed that her voice was low and exceeding sweet. When she stooped to fondle the frolicsome rabbits, or perchance to bind up the leg of some wounded hare, they thought her tender fingers wondrous soft, and her warm cheek felt very smooth to them as she pressed it against their furry coats, and pettingly coaxed them to linger a moment on her lap.

Strange to say, though the little maid had no distinct remembrance of human fellowship, yet she spoke in silvery tones a language which you or I, dear children, should very well understand.

She dwelt in the hollow of an old tree, and few were the wants of her simple life. A clear spring, bubbling up among the rocks near at hand, in the centre of an open grassy space, formed a natural bath, where every morning, undisturbed by fear of man, she bathed herself, and wrung the water from her dripping tresses.

In summer time she often slept high up between the forked branches of a mighty cedar-pine, where with sticks and long grass she had woven herself a sort of nest. From hence also she could contemplate the stars, between whom and herself there ever seemed a link of sympathy. To her untaught imagination it appeared that the heavenly luminaries were happy in being among others of their kind. Whereas, had she but known it, each one of those seemingly tiny lights glowed myriads of miles apart from its nearest neighbour.

Fidunia dwelt serene, content with her lot; yet it was only natural that in her maturing bosom the yearning instincts of womanhood should awake, and that she longed, with an intensity of which she herself was hardly aware, for some creature to whom she could recount, and with whom she could share, the pleasures and pains of her solitary life.

In the forest where she had her home there were no great alternations of heat and cold, nor was the length of the days so different as we find it in our own more northerly climate. Still it was spring-time in this land of which I speak. The fair soft tread of summer already sent a reviving thrill through the woods and glades, and Fidunia's thoughts turned anew to her forlorn condition.

She remarked, as was her wont, the habits of the brute-world around. Every bird had its mate. The sober rooks perambulated the green sward in pairs. The thrush wooed his love in songs of gushing melody. The tender turtle-doves cooed ceaselessly to each other. The very mole that burrowed by the fountain side, brought a sable bride to enjoy with him the hidden comforts of his subterranean dwelling.

Fidunia sat and pondered over these things. Again and again she tried, like Narcissus, to see her image in the crystal spring. But kind nature, careful to spare the little maid a needless pang, ruffled the translucent surface so perpetually, that the young girl's face only cast a dancing shadow on the bubbling water amid the rocks.

Baffled in her hopes of even a shadowy companion, Fidunia, with a tear in her eye, murmured "Alone, ever alone! Ah, cruel fate! How I sigh for something really to love me."

Awhile she remained motionless, gazing moodily into the troubled spring, but anon her quick ear caught the pattering sound of little feet upon the dead beech-leaves that formed a rich carpet near at hand. She thought it was the squirrels, yet theirs was a bounding lighter tread. She turned--and, lo! running towards her across the open space, she saw a beautiful dog. In colour he was almost golden; his silky hair fell soft as feathery down on either side of his little body. His tail and ears of darker chestnut tinge imparted piquancy to his shape. His paws were exquisitely clean, and covered with lovely hair. His brilliant dark brown eyes shone with extraordinary intelligence--at least, so Fidunia thought--as the little fellow slowly trotted up and stood before her, wagging his bushy tail.

"Art thou come to be my companion?" the maiden joyfully cried. In answer to her question, the small quadruped came nearer still, and very very gently laid himself down at her feet. His mute gesture was most expressive.

Fidunia surveyed him carefully, she thought she saw the marks of sadness in his wistful countenance--he gambolled not around her, nor attempted to lick her hand, but fixing on her his large anxious eyes, seemed to implore permission to remain by her side. Naturally fearless and fond of animals, Fidunia drew him upon her knee, and gently stroking the while his silky coat she asked him "whence he came, where his home, and what his name." The little creature could not reply in human tongue, but he continued to wag his eloquent tail, and to gaze earnestly in her face.

"If you are going to be my companion, I must know what to call you," said the wondering maiden. "My name is Fidunia," added she dreamily--but at this last word the dog sprang from her lap to the ground, and assumed a begging attitude in front of the little damsel. "Nay, nay, my dear doggie, I cannot call you Fidunia," cried she, but, after a moment's reflection, "would not 'Fido' do as well?"

Hardly had this name dropped from her lips than the wise animal bounded into the air, and then ran round and round in a manner most expressive of joy. Fidunia delighted, clapped her hands, and as at this well-known signal all her feathered and furred friends came trooping around to enquire her will, she at once introduced Fido to their notice, and an alliance offensive and defensive was forthwith agreed upon between the community at large, and their mistress's new favourite.

Ere long Fidunia discovered that her comrade was both active and playful, and though he could not speak her language nor she understand his, and she therefore never discovered his previous history, yet she surmised that he must have been separated from some one he dearly loved. For this reason she bore patiently with his occasional fits of low spirits. Soothed and cheered by her gentle companionship and thoughtful sympathy, Fido, before very long forgot his sorrows, and became the gayest of the gay.

Echoes hitherto unknown to Fidunia in the solemn forest, were roused by his shrilly bark of joy, as capering round his young mistress, they wandered together far adown those sylvan glades. Fidunia could now indeed venture farther from home, as however long they roamed abroad, the dog's wondrous instinct always led them back to the gnarled tree, the crystal fountain, and the green velvety lawn, for so many years the little maiden's happy abode.

She soon discovered that Fido was very accomplished in various ways--and she fancied also that he understood all she said to him--he watched so keenly every word that fell from her lips.

About this time strange dreams began to haunt the young girl. Night after night she wandered in regions such as she never remembered to have seen in her waking hours.

At one time she walked amid beautiful gardens--on either side of her bloomed a rich profusion of lovely fragrant flowers. Within each sweet floweret lurked a tiny elf, and as she passed along, fairies swung themselves forth singing through the perfume laden air in soft musical tones, "King Antiphates is blind! King Antiphates is blind! and the maid who alone can deliver him knows not her mission!"

At another time she climbed painfully along a steep path, leading through scenes perfectly unknown to her. The hot sun beat on her bare head, and she toiled on and on, ever ascending, yet never reaching the craggy summit towering far above. Beneath her feet, an unfathomable ocean surged and swelled, and broke in hoarse grumblings upon the frowning iron-bound shore, sending vast sheets of spray aloft, and awakening strange terrors in the woodland maiden's breast. White screaming sea-birds dashed around her, and as they brushed her face with their wings, she heard them cry wildly, "The great king is blind, only Fidunia can deliver him--but she knows it not! she knows it not!"

Again the little maiden found herself upon a lonely terrible mountain. She stood upon dismal rocks whereon appeared no vestige of life. Tossed and wreathed in fantastic shapes, the very stones seemed to bear the impress of writhing agony. Though now cold and motionless, they had passed through the seething horrors of fire. Scathed and withered, repulsive alike to man, beast and herb, amid their desolate clefts, only the slimy reptile traced his sinuous course; or the bright-eyed lizard peered warily forth on the shuddering beholder. Turning to escape, if possible, from this dreary place, Fidunia found herself on the very verge of a huge chasm. She felt a burning heat scorch her face, and penetrate her feet. Long tongues of horrid flame darted in lurid flashes from the thick darkness below. A sulphurous vapour enveloped her in its hot and suffocating fumes. She endeavoured to cry for help, but could not utter a sound--an echo like the reverberating growl of distant thunder filled the air around her with these words, "He will never see now, for the maiden dreams away her life in the forest, and knows not that she alone can save him."

From this last and most frightful of all her visions, Fidunia woke agitated and confused. Why were words of the same import evermore repeated in her slumbers? Whence came these awful voices that sounded through the gloom of night? Who was the Antiphates whose misfortune was known, as it seemed, to all the world save herself? It was early morning as she sat up and pondered over these things. Her feverish heart was refreshed by the dewy silence around. Only through the trees came the faint twitter of half awakened birds. The sky, brightening towards the East, heralded the approach of sunrise.

Her resolve was taken. She would set off that very day and journey forth into the unknown world which hitherto she had only visited in dreams. She awoke Fido therefore, and explained to him despite his melancholy dissuading looks, that they must leave the fountain, the lawn, and the tree, and travel far beyond the forest to seek their fortunes among the children of men.

Clapping her hands together, she summoned her faithful forest friends, who sorrowfully accompanied their beloved mistress and her companion as far as their strength would permit, then bade them a melancholy farewell.

Quite overcome by losing sight (perchance for ever) of her sylvan home and her attached little subjects, Fidunia that night sobbed herself to sleep, with Fido in her arms, and half regretted her determination. But in her dreams angels hovered over her, and whispered encouragement to the weary sad-hearted maiden.

For several days more the adventurers journeyed through the dense wood. At night they found shelter in some leaf-strewn cave or upon some mossy bank, beneath over-arching trees. Then the innocent pair, under the protection of heaven, slumbered until day's reviving beams once more cheered them on their way.

At length one afternoon they drew near the out-skirts of the vast forest within whose mighty depths they had so long sojourned. The setting sun reddened the stems of the tall out-standing firs, and the scent of fallen pine leaves hung rich and heavy on the air, as they left the shade of the trees and stepped on to a wide stretching common.

Fidunia, bewildered by the apparently illimitable space before her, stopped perplexed and half wished to retrace her steps; but Fido bounded on, entreating her by unmistakeable signs to follow him.

After crossing some old sand-pits, and scrambling across an expanse of furze and heather, they saw before them a small cottage; blue smoke curled cosily above it into the still evening sky; an atmosphere of peace seemed to surround the lowly walls. As they approached, however, a large flock of geese and poultry of all kinds, disturbed by their footsteps, made a terrible cackling, and presently a hale old woman opened the door, and came out to see what agitated her flock.

Fidunia, accustomed to the ways of birds, had already taken from her wallet some of the seeds she was wont to collect for her feathered forest friends. The geese, well pleased, quickly gathered round, and eagerly fed from her hand.

Meanwhile, Fido gambolled up to the cottage dame, and begged before her as if to solicit her good-will. Thus, propitiating mistress and fowls, the little maid and her dog were kindly made welcome for the night by the ancient hen-wife.

Next morning, refreshed and thankful, they prepared to resume their journey. The good dame now asked Fidunia her history, and whither she was bound; the young girl replied evasively that she only wished to see the world, and was going with her dog to seek their fortunes.

"Nay, my child, that is not all," said the old woman; "tell me, I pray you, the exact truth." So saying, she fixed so keen, yet withal so friendly a glance upon the maiden's blushing countenance, that moved by a sudden impulse, Fidunia poured forth her whole story.

Her hostess listened carefully to her long account, and then resumed: "You have done well to confide in me; I am more powerful than my mean surroundings would lead you to imagine. I would fain have kept from you the dreams that have broken the peaceful charm of the forest, and set you wandering. I have, however, sisters who are otherwise minded, and they (to work out their own purposes) have sent these visions to harass and perplex you. I was anxious to know how much had been revealed, and therefore threw myself in your way to help you. My intentions, however, would have been frustrated had not you, dear maiden, given me straightforward answers.

"The King Antiphates, of whom you have heard in your dreams, dwells, in reality, in the great City of Deva. You will come to it in time if you travel along the high-road, which you can discover beyond that clump of firs," continued she, pointing through the open door to a little hill at some distance. "I am unable to render you more assistance at present, but if, after reaching the far-off city, you are ever in great straits, take this crystal from your bosom (where you must always carry it, concealed from every eye, or it will lose its virtue); place it in the palm of your hand, fix your eyes steadfastly upon it, repeating, meanwhile, in a low tone, these words:--

"Strange gem! upon thy crystal core
I gaze, the while I aid implore;
Trembling upon the verge of fate,
Oh point my path ere yet too late!
I fain would gain the boon I ask,
Is mine the strength for such a task?
Canst thou unloose the links that bind,
Or vanquish powerful foes combined?
Then, show whate'er there lurks of art
Within thine own mysterious heart;
On thee I turn a hopeful eye,
Bright stone of silence, make reply!"

So saying, she drew from her own breast a beautiful sparkling prism, about the size of a pigeon's egg, and gave it, with some solemnity of manner, to her wondering guest. Deeply grateful, Fidunia threw her arms round the kind Anna's neck, and warmly thanked her for the precious talisman. With the good woman's aid she then committed to memory the needful lines.

When she had successfully mastered them, the old wife drew her hand across her eyes, and resumed, in a somewhat trembling tone, "I know not wherefore you interest me so strangely, my little maid; but if you will be advised by one who has drained the cup of earthly pleasure to its very dregs, return, as yet innocent and inexperienced, with your faithful companion to the quiet joys of your peaceful forest; nor seek, amid the busy haunts of men, those more exciting scenes where many a grief and anxiety must of necessity be yours."

She paused; how could she cast a blight over the joyousness of that poor unsuspecting heart by explaining to Fidunia that maidens, plain in feature, and devoid of dowry, have oftentimes, from no fault of their own, but a sorry lot in this hard world compared with that of their lovelier or more wealthy sisters?

Clothed in her long, grey dress, Fidunia still knelt at Dame Anna's knee; the light from the cottage window fell full on her rough sunburnt face; her straw-coloured hair contrasted unfavourably with her dark reddish skin, and though her eyes were in some measure expressive of the gentle spirit within, yet their faint colour, and the absence of visible eyebrow or eyelash, detracted seriously from their possible charm. Her figure was not ungraceful, but her strangely-fashioned robes (which, prettily donned by some fairer being, could have given a certain _bizarre_ attraction of their own) were but ill calculated to add comeliness to the young girl's unformed limbs and tanned though shapely hands.

As the compassionate dame hesitated, unwilling to speak too bitterly to Fidunia of nature's apparent injustice, her young guest laughingly replied, "Thank you, kind mother; but I could not now remain satisfied without seeking my fate in the unknown world. I shall never forget your promise, however, but seek your aid with this amulet in the hour of need. Yet," added she, "ere I and my dog leave your friendly hearth, we will do our best to afford you some small return for the hospitality you have shown us."

Fidunia and Fido, who had a thousand times alone together practised various little tricks, now went through many evolutions before the delighted old woman.

First, said the little maid, "What will you do for your mistress?" No sooner had she asked this question, than the dog fell mute, and apparently lifeless, at her feet. His stiffened limbs made it plain that he would willingly "die" for her dear sake. Bidding him revive, Fidunia then drew from her pocket one of the chestnuts she kept for the purpose. When the little fellow caught sight of this, he "begged" for it, but his mistress was obdurate. He then "jumped" high into the air to try and win his plaything; still in vain. Next he "asked" for it in doggish fashion, by loudly barking. Fidunia remained relentless. But now a sudden thought seemed to strike the clever animal. Raising himself once more on his hind-legs, he uttered such a tuneful howl--his apology for "singing"--that his mistress, with a pretended sigh, was fain to reward him by placing the promised guerdon upon the ground. Instead of rushing upon it, however, Fido, in an exceedingly graceful attitude, bent his head on one side, and gravely "considered" the desired reward. His meditations coinciding with his wishes, at the word of command he dashed nimbly forward, seized the round nut, threw it up in the air, and caught it again and again; playing, in fact, by himself a game of ball. Finally, he laid the prize gently down at his comrade's feet to demonstrate that no matter what he won, he would be content to surrender all he possessed to her care.

Dame Anna, delighted with the pretty dog's sagacity, caressed and praised him, and, after amply provisioning his little mistress for the journey, wished them both God-speed on their way. She strictly enjoined Fidunia to refrain from mentioning this adventure, and advised her also to keep her dreams to herself, and only enquire as she went along, for the great city of Deva. Leaning over her low garden-gate, surrounded by her long-billed and splay-footed court, the kind henwife long watched her late guests as they crossed the bleak common, and reached the small clump of trees which she had pointed out to them as a landmark on their way to the desired haven.

Soon after passing the summit crowned by these few lonely firs, Fidunia stepped on to a broad high-road, which she at once recognized as that described by their good friend, and leading to the capital of the country.

They now walked on and on for a weary time. The hot sun poured down its noontide rays, the dust arose in parching clouds, and followed with the wind their flagging footsteps.

At last they came to a part of the road bounded by a stone wall. On the other side lay a beautiful green park, stretching far away in upland slopes of rich pasturage. Fatigued and footsore, Fidunia and her little dog clambered over the fence, and composed themselves comfortably to rest in the soft grass. Sheltered from the mid-day heat in their seat among low brushwood and high overshadowing trees, they gratefully partook of the food pressed on them ere their departure by the worthy cottage wife.

Half playing, half teaching her faithful companion, Fidunia held aloft a little bit of meat in one hand, while with the other she bent down the branch of a neighbouring tree, over which Fido at her gentle command, bounded nimbly backwards and forwards.

Suddenly, a loud, harsh voice exclaimed, "What business have you here? No tramps are allowed in my park."

Looking timidly round, Fidunia beheld a stout, red-faced, grizzle-haired man, in leathern gaiters, who angrily threatened herself and Fido with an uplifted stick. Absolutely terrified by this, her first experience of man, poor Fidunia felt as if glued to the spot. She could not move hand or foot. A surging tide of red blood rushed over her face and neck, and covered the poor child of nature with confusion.

Had she looked beautiful in her distress, perhaps the rough proprietor might have treated her more tenderly. As it was, increasing in violence, he drew nearer still, when Fido, who already bristled with rage, flew upon him, and ere he could lay hands upon his trembling mistress, fixed his sharp white teeth apparently in the fierce stranger's leg; but, luckily for the savage Baron, Fido's jaws only met in his legging.

Coward, as well as bully, the rough man changed his tone and implored Fidunia to call off her dog. Recovered from her first terror, the little maid beckoned to Fido to follow her, and ere this selfish squire could look calmly about him, she had flown nimbly over the wall, followed by her dog.

They both ran a considerable way in their terror, not knowing that the friendly Anna (in reality a good fairy) had thrown so much dust in the rude Baron's eyes, that confused and bewildered, he knew not which way the intruders had escaped, but continued to search for them with wicked words and impotent threats long after they had left him and his inhospitable domains behind.

Meantime the travellers pursued their way until, worn out and hungry, they came, towards nightfall, into a small hamlet upon the great high-road.

The village inn, with its gay painted sign of the "Golden Boar" flapping to and fro in the evening breeze, stood invitingly open. Fidunia approached its threshold. The spruce landlady, airing herself with arms akimbo at the open door, stared hard at the little maiden as she paused longingly in front of the steps. "Can you pay for a night's lodging?" she asked in a matter of fact tone. Alas, no--poor Fidunia possessed not one single piece of that hitherto unneeded money--without which she was soon to find she could gain nothing in the pleasant world she had so longed to explore.

She sorrowfully passed the cheerful preparations for wayfarers better supplied than herself with all-conquering gold, and heart-sore and weary sat herself down on an old stump of wood outside the village smithy.

Here, however, she soon forgot her fatigue for a while in watching the red furnace, and the grimy fire-illumined men who moved briskly to and fro, striking bright sparks from the glowing metal. They interested her strangely by their easy motions of power, and apparently inexhaustible store of latent strength. She was gradually recalled to herself, however, by perceiving that she and Fido had become the centre of attraction to a gathering crowd. The children accustomed to cluster round the entrance of the warm and busy workshop now turned their attention to this solitary maiden, and the beautiful dog, which, standing before her, ever on the alert, seemed ready to guard his mistress to the death.

The heated smith, coming for a moment to cool himself at the half-barred entrance, found an inquisitive group pressing round the young girl, regardless of Fido's low growls, as with hair on end and quivering tail, he prepared to spring on anyone who might touch or insult her.

Of a kindly and generous nature, and ever ready to befriend the helpless, Master Franz stepped up to the stranger and civilly asked her pleasure.