The poor girl really was, to all appearance, in a rapid consumption; but in all her family, hale, hearty, and strong on both sides, such an ailment had never been known. The whole tenor of her ways was changed. Even her pets--and she had many--were forgotten now. The winter would come, and with it Christmas, and to that festival Ernestine looked forward with a kind of horror now. Would it be jovial as usual in the old ancestral hall of Frankenburg? Doubtless the glittering Christmas tree--a pine from the Reichswald--would be there as of old, as it had been for generations; and there would be the venison pasty, and the brown shining boar's head to be solemnly cut and jovially eaten; speeches would be made, and toasts drunk with many a merry 'hoch!' while her heart would be with the German army before beleaguered Paris, or in the grave, where she feared her Carl lay; so she hoped as Christmas came that her place in Frankenburg would be vacant. The girl's mind was a prey to suspense and fear, sorrow and love--love, the strongest of all human passions. We have said that her nervous organization was delicate; hence these mental affections, together with incessant anxiety, threw her into a species of rapid consumption, which the presence and restoration of 'her Carl,' as she always called him, alone could cure or arrest. She had a dry cough, a quick small pulse, a burning heat in her hands, a loss of strength, and sinking of the eyes, and her state became such at last that the Countess begged the Baron to absent himself from the Schloss for a time, as his visits there were a source of perpetual annoyance to Ernestine, though, for some time past, she secluded herself in her own room. Now her mother began to wring her hands, and pray that Heaven would find for her this Herr Pierrepont, if his presence, even if tolerated for a time, would restore her sinking child. Again and again did Heinrich write and telegraph to the head-quarters of the Thuringians concerning Charlie; but nothing had been heard of him there, and all were certain that he must have been killed in the action on the 14th of the preceding August. Poor Ernestine! Her case was soon pronounced hopeless. Her beauty remained; but it was of a strange and weird kind. On each cheek was a hectic spot; her eyes, sunken in their sockets, had an unnatural brightness; she spoke little, and laughed never. A little time more, and she was confined to her bed, where she lay for hours with her hot hand clasped in that of Herminia's, who bathed her temples with Rimmel and eau de Cologne, and fanned and petted her, while she tossed on her pillow, and muttered 'Carl! Carl!' It was always Carl. Often when she spoke, her dark eyes flashed up, like the momentary flicker of a lamp about to go out for ever--on earth, at least. 'Oh, Herminia, darling!' she said on one occasion; 'life has no charms, and death has no terrors for me now.' 'Carl will return.'