And at this I took my basket and threw it high into the air, so that it was very pretty to see how the flowers lay gayly round about in the twigs and on the greensward below. Then I climbed down quickly and went through the quiet garden to my dwelling. Often indeed I stopped still at many a place where I had once seen her, or where lying in the shade I had thought of her. In and about my house everything still looked just as I had left it yesterday. The garden was plundered and bare; in my room inside, the great account-book still lay open; my violin, which I had almost wholly forgotten, hung covered with dust on the wall. A morning beam, however, from the window opposite fell gleaming across the strings. That struck a true accord within my heart. "Yes," I said, "do thou come here, thou faithful instrument! Our kingdom is not of this world!" And so I took the violin from the wall, left the account-book, dressing-gown, slippers, pipes, and parasol lying, and wandered, as poor as I had come, out of my little house away on the glistening highway. I still often looked back. A strange feeling had taken possession of me. I was so sad and yet again so thoroughly joyous, like a bird escaping from its cage. And when I had gone a long way I took up my violin, out there in the free air, and sang. The castle, the garden, and the towers of Vienna had already disappeared behind me in the fragrance of morning; above me exulted innumerable larks high in the air. Thus I went between the green mountains and past cheerful cities and villages down toward Italy. Translation of William H. Carpenter. SEPARATION Brown was the heather, The sky was blue; We sat together Where flowers grew. Is this the thrilling Nightingale's beat? Are larks still trilling Their numbers sweet? I spend the hours Exiled from thee; Spring has brought flowers, But none for me. Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Charles Harvey Genung. LORELEI 'Tis very late, 'tis growing cold; Alone thou ridest through the wold? The way is long, there's none to see, Ah, lovely maid, come follow me. "I know men's false and guileful art, And grief long since has rent my heart. I hear the huntsman's bugle there: Oh fly,--thou know'st me not,--beware!" So richly is the steed arrayed, So wondrous fair the youthful maid, I know thee now--too late to fly! Thou art the witch, the Lorelei. Thou know'st me well,--my lonely shrine Still frowns in silence on the Rhine; 'Tis very late, 'tis growing cold,-- Thou com'st no more from out the wold! Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Charles Harvey Genung. [Illustration: GEORGE ELIOT.] GEORGE ELIOT (1819-1880) BY CHARLES WALDSTEIN