‘There is the outside visible progress–the progress which may be seen, striding perceptibly onwards, superficial generally, noisy, clamorous–likest to some wild pea, some quickly-growing parasite, blowing brilliantly, and fading rapidly; there is the inward, invisible progress too–the deep, unseen stream: the plant that grows in darkness, most nourished when all around seems least propitious: it becomes visible in the end–one perfect bloom–beauty crowning beauty–Clytie springs from the sunflower at last, answering the summons of the god.’ The journey to Lahnburg was accomplished in safety. Just before Christmas Eve, with its guests and its letters, its noise and its bustle, arrived, Sara found herself in her new home. Lahnburg is always a secluded, retired spot, somewhat in the style of ‘the world forgetting, by the world forgot;’ and now, in the depth of winter, when tourists had fled, and winds were bleak, it was more silent and quiet than ever. It suited Sara that it should be so–suited all her ideas and wishes. Yet it was with strange feelings that she found herself again here, on a bleak, sad December afternoon. There was no snow, but the temperature had been falling all day; a bitter east wind was blowing; a sullen, leaden sky, against which the body of the cathedral and the rugged shape of the old Heidenthurm showed out black and mournful. The hills looked dark and sad; the aspect of the whole fair land was changed. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived. Sara, very weary, stayed in her room to rest. When at last she came downstairs, she found the salon empty. There was a large glowing fire in the English open grate; the lamp was turned down; the dancing blazes flickered upon all the objects in the quaint old room, and the first thing that caught Sara’s eye was a panel on that old painted spinet on which Falkenberg had been leaning when they were all laughing at the mistake she had made in crediting him with being possessed of a wife and children. ‘Where is Herr Falkenberg?’ she hastily asked of Ellen, who came in just then. ‘He’s gone, ma’am. He told me not to disturb you, but to tell you when you came down that he had an engagement at Frankfort to-night, and he didn’t know when he would be able to come over here again, but he would write.’ Sara was silent; her mind filled with various emotions. It was very good of him–what wonderful tact and delicacy he had! and yet, she wished he had left a note behind. She wished he had not been so afraid of disturbing her. He might have given her the chance of thanking him for his goodness, and all this provision of luxury and thoughtful care for her comfort and convenience. But no! It was doubtless best left as it was. After all, if she had seen him, what could she have said? So she decided in her own mind, and ten minutes afterwards was wondering how soon he would write, and what he would say when he did so. * * * * *