“How well the Alten Schloss looks, with that mass of shadow on it,” remarked a young man to a fair and delicate-looking girl beside him; “and see how the weeping ash waves over the old walls, like a banner.” “And look!” cried she, “mark that little procession that is slowly winding up the pathway,--what effect a few figures give to the scene, as they appear and disappear with each turning of the road. Some pilgrimage to a holy shrine, I fancy.” “No; it is a funeral. I can mark what Shelley calls the step of the bearers 'heavy and slow;' and if you listen, you'll catch the sound of the death-bell.” “It's quite a picture, I declare,” said she. “I wish I had brought my sketch-book.” And so it is ever! The sorrows that are rending some hearts in twain are but as objects of picturesque effect to others. And even the young and the tender-minded learn to look on the calamities that touch them not, as things of mere artistic meaning. Up that steep road, over rock and rugged stone, brushing between the tangled briers, or with difficulty being turned around some sharp angle, was now borne the corpse of him who had so often wended the same path on his homeward way. Four peasants carried the coffin, which was followed by Nelly and old Andy; Hans, from a sense of respect, walking behind them. It was a long and arduous ascent, and they were often obliged to halt and take breath; and at such times Nelly would kneel down beside the coffin and pray. The sufferings of the last two days had left deep traces on her features, which had lost every tinge of color. Her eyes, too, were deep-set and heavy; but in the elevated expression of her brow at moments, and the compression of her lips, might be seen the energy of one who had a firm purpose, and was resolved to carry it through. “Sit down and rest yourself, Fräulein,” said Hans, as he saw that she faltered in her step. “We are yet far from the top.” “I will rest at the fountain,” said she, faintly. “It was a favorite spot of his.” And they moved slowly on once more. The fountain was a little well, carved in the native rock, around which some rude seats were also fashioned, the whole sheltered by a thick roof of foliage, which, even in noonday, cast a deep shadow around, and effectually screened it from the path that wound along beside it. Scarcely had the bearers deposited the coffin beside the well, when the sound of voices was heard as a considerable number of persons descended the path. Words in French, German, and English showed that the party consisted of representatives of these nations; but one voice, if once heard not readily forgotten, towered high above all the rest. “I cannot offer my arm, madam,” cried a sharp, ringing accent, “as the infernal road will not admit of two abreast; but I can go before and pilot you.” “Oh, thanks, sir,” replied a mild, meek tone; “I can get on very well indeed. I am only uneasy about my sister.”