And Anna, with a scream of despair, flung herself forward with her face on the pavement, and her hands extended. * * * * * Two years ago, during the first week in June, an English traveller arrived at Siebenstein and put up at the "Krone," where, as he was tired and hungry, he ordered an early supper. When that was discussed, he strolled forth into the village square, and leaned against the wall of the churchyard. The sun had set in the valley, but the mountain-peaks were still in the glory of its rays, surrounding the place as a golden crown. He lighted a cigar, and, looking into the cemetery, observed there an old woman, bowed over a grave, above which stood a cross, inscribed "Joseph Arler," and she was tending the flowers on it, and laying over the arms of the cross a little wreath of heart's-ease or pansy. She had in her hand a small basket. Presently she rose and walked towards the gate, by which stood the traveller. As she passed, he said kindly to her: "Grüss Gott, Mütterchen." She looked steadily at him and replied: "Honoured sir! that which is past may be repented of, but can never be undone!" and went on her way. He was struck with her face. He had never before seen one so full of boundless sorrow--almost of despair. His eyes followed her as she walked towards the mill-stream, and there she took her place on the wooden bridge that crossed it, leaning over the handrail, and looking down into the water. An impulse of curiosity and of interest led him to follow her at a distance, and he saw her pick a flower, a pansy, out of her basket, and drop it into the current, which caught and carried it forward. Then she took a second, and allowed it to fall into the water. Then, after an interval, a third--a fourth; and he counted seven in all. After that she bowed her head on her hands; her grey hair fell over them, and she broke into a paroxysm of weeping. The traveller, standing by the stream, saw the seven pansies swept down, and one by one pass over the revolving wheel and vanish. He turned himself about to return to his inn, when, seeing a grave peasant near, he asked: "Who is that poor old woman who seems so broken down with sorrow?" "That," replied the man, "is the Mother of Pansies." "The Mother of Pansies!" he repeated.