And she herself, most miserable! That world above was only a beautiful fable to her ever since her restless brain had begun to work behind her burning brow. Her passionate heart had once desired to possess all earthly joy as the sea receives into its bosom the streams which roll gleefully and exultingly into it, and now it was pining away like the barren desert under a sky of brass; and her vigorous form seemed made to drag the weary burden of life through the never-ending years to a far-distant, desolate grave, like some captive hero who, bending under the heavy load bound upon his strong shoulders, may not hope to break down or fall beneath the lash of his driver like his weaker companion, but must throw away his load, and turn upon his tormentors, crying, "You or I!" But there was no alternative here. Death was very sure for those who did not fear it! Did she fear death? She! With this chisel, with the first tool from off her table, she would accomplish it with her own hand, if---- If within her deepest, inmost heart, where some spring that she had thought dried up must still be bubbling, a siren voice had not wailed and whispered: "Do not die! for so you would kill me, the last and mightiest of all the sisters. Only one moment is mine, and there is night before me and after me; but this one moment surpasses the bliss of eternity!" In the next room to her had been noise and whistling and singing the whole morning, louder than usual, as the master had been absent to-day; and there had been much talk as to whether, when there was a Mrs. Sculptor--some wit had suggested this--things would be quite so lively in the studio. Now all was still, only the storm howled and raged round the silent house, and shook and rattled the tall windows. How had he endured the disappointment of yesterday? Was he raging like the storm without? Was he the storm? Was it he who tapped at the window-pane, and knocked at the door? Good heavens! there was really a knock at the door! Was it possible! had he at last, at last broken the final fetter, and come here to carry her away? With trembling limbs she rose, her heart beating as if it would break in joyful terror. There again! at the closed window now! and was there not a cry, "Ferdinanda?" With a shriek she rushed forward, tore back the bolts, flung open the door: "Bertalda! Good God! he is dead!" "Not yet," said Bertalda, "but he is not far off it." The girl's usually laughing rosy face was pale and changed; she was breathless from the haste she had made, and could hardly bring out her words, as with trembling knees she sank into the nearest chair. "He is ill! where? in your house? for God's sake, Bertalda, speak!" Ferdinanda stood before the girl, pressing her hands in hers, and putting back the ruffled hair from her brow. "Speak! speak!"