Let us glance at the home of Basil Wolgemuth. It was a German habitation of the Middle Ages; a comfortable but not luxurious dwelling, such a one as we see in old German pictures. In homes like this was nurtured the genius of Rembrandt, of Rubens, of Vandyck; from such a peaceful German home sprang the fiery spirit and indomitable zeal of Luther; and in like home-nests were cradled the early years of most of the rude but noble men, who, either by the sword or the pen, have made their names famous throughout the fair land of the Rhine. Basil, his mother, Margareta, and another young girl sat round a table, spread with the ample fare of bread and fruits. The mother was worthy of such a son,——a matron of placid but noble aspect; like him, too, in the deep clear eyes and open forehead. Margareta, a sweet bud, which only needed time to burst forth into a perfect flower, sat by her brother’s side; the fourth of the group was Isilda. I hardly know how to describe Isilda. There is one face only I have seen which pictures her to my idea; it is a Madonna of Guido Reni’s. Once beheld, that face imprints itself forever on the heart. It is the embodiment of a soul so pure, so angelic, that it might have been Eve’s when she was still in Eden; yet there is in the eyes that shadow of woman’s intense love, the handmaid of which is ever sorrow; and those deep blue orbs seemed thoughtfully looking into the dim future with a vague sadness, as if conscious that the peace of the present would not endure. Womanly sweetness, feelings suppressed, not slumbering, a soul attuned to high thoughts like a well-strung lyre, and only needing a breath to awaken its harmonious chords,——all these are visible in that face which shone into the painter’s heart, and has lived forever in the work of his hand. And such was Isilda. Basil sat opposite to her; he looked into her eyes; he drank in her smile, and was happy. All traces of the careworn student had vanished; he was cheerful even to gayety; laughed and jested with his sister; bade her sing old ditties, and even joined in the strain, which made them all more mirthful still. Basil had little music in his voice, but much in his heart. When the songs ceased, Margareta prayed him to repeat some old ballad, he knew so many. The student looked towards Isilda; her eyes had more persuasive eloquence than even his sister’s words, and he began:—— “THE ELLE-MAID GAY.[1] “Ridest by the woodland, Ludwig, Ludwig, Ridest by the woodland gray? Who sits by the woodland, Ludwig, Ludwig? It is the Elle-maid gay. “A kiss on thy lips lies, Ludwig, Ludwig, Pure as the dews of May: Think on thine own love, brown-haired Ludwig, And not on an Elle-maid gay. “She sits ’neath a linden, singing, singing, Though her dropped lids nothing say; For her beauty lures whether smiling or singing, For she is an Elle-maid gay.