"Thanks, good Magdalena! thanks!" said the young man, looking at her with that sweet smile, and tender expression of his mild blue eyes, which had procured him, among all who knew him, the constant designation of "Gentle Gottlob;" but at the same time repelling the porringer. "Not here. Place the food elsewhere. I will eat anon. I am not hungry now; and I must not leave my work. I have promised it to his noble reverence the prior, for the eve of the fête of St Ursula, and to-morrow is the very day. There is still much to do. It seems as if I could never give sufficient finish to this face, or impart to it, with my dull colours and rebellious pencil, that look of heavenly brightness that ought to dwell upon it. And yet, alas! I would it never could be finished! It will break my heart to part with it--although I love not my own work, nor deem it excellent. But still I cherish it--all imperfect as it is--I know not why; and when to-morrow comes, and I must give it up into his reverence's hands, it seems that my life and spirit would depart from me with its loss, and that all around me would be dark and joyless." After placing the porringer and bread upon a spare corner of the sculptor's working bench, Magdalena moved gently behind the young man's chair, and having asked respectfully his pardon, looked over his shoulder. At the sight of the fair face upon which the young artist was bestowing so much care, her looks betrayed feelings of surprise, mingled with much emotion. Once or twice she passed her hand over her eyes, as if doubting the reality of what she saw. It was some time before she could sufficiently master her agitation to speak; and when at last she spoke, after a long-drawn sigh, it was with a tone which still betrayed, in spite of her efforts, the interest inspired in her by the painter's work of art. "It is indeed a fine performance, and right bravely limned," she said; "and in truth the countenance you have given to yonder saint, with the pale glory, is one of exquisite beauty. I wonder not that you should be grieved to look upon so sweet a face no more; although, methinks, I know a face as fair, to which it bears a marvellous resemblance." "What meanest thou, Magdalena?" said the young artist, bending his head still lower over his work. "Whom dost thou know who could bear a likeness to this creation of my own imagination?" "Of your own memory, Master Gottlob! you should have said," pursued Magdalena. "Surely--or my eyes deceive themselves most strangely--although in that sweet face they were not easily deceived; surely the face is that of"---- The old woman again paused, as if to suppress her emotion. "Of whom?" enquired Gottlob in a low tone, also in much agitation. "Of the fair Fraulein Bertha, the noble Ober-Amtmann's daughter." "You think so, Magdalena?" replied the young man. "Perhaps it maybe a slight shade of a resemblance, caught unconsciously"----