NORG MYTHS. (continued 4)

“But do you really mean that that good, noble, handsome judge really means to make his wife of a poor peasant girl like me?”

“He might do worse,” answered her father, with archness and pride. “But there is no doubt he was in earnest. You should have seen the fire in his eye when he spoke!”

“In that case, you may depend I will find the way to fulfil his directions: trust me for that!”

Nor was she long in finding a way which satisfied the judge completely. She took off all her clothes, and then covered herself with fishing-nets; this for the first condition. Then, for the second, she timed her journey in the dusk of evening, which is neither called day nor night; and, for the third, she had previously had the road covered with boards, and upon these she walked, so that she neither trod the high-road nor yet a by-path.

Delighted at acquiring such a prize, and having so clever a maiden for his future companion through life, the judge married Katharina before the end of the month. There were great rejoicings at the wedding, to which all the country-side was invited; and then the poor peasant girl was installed in the judge’s house. The judge, however, had exacted of her one condition, which was that she should never interfere with any of her clever suggestions in any case brought before him for decision, but let justice take its free and uninterrupted course.

Years passed by happily enough. The judge rejoiced more and more every day over the wisdom of his choice, and Katharina sedulously observed the condition imposed upon her, and never interfered with her husband’s dealings in the court.

Nevertheless, it happened one day that a peasant whom she had known from her infancy had a case before the judge which was nearly as perplexed as that of her father had been, and, despairing of making his right apparent, the peasant came to Katharina, and begged her, by their lifelong friendship, to give him one of those good counsels for which she had been so famous at home in the days gone by.

Katharina urged her promise to her husband, and for a long time refused to break it; but the wily peasant contrived to work on her vanity so effectually, that at last, in an evil moment, she consented this once to give her advice, exacting first a promise he would never tell any one she had done so.

Though the case had been argued since the first thing that morning, they were no nearer arriving at a decision. Now the disputants had been ordered to stand back while another case was called, but it would come on again immediately; and in the meantime the poor peasant entreated Katharina’s counsel as his only chance of rescuing his milk before it turned sour.

“I see one means, I think, of bringing him to his senses,” said Katharina, after she had yielded to her poor friend’s importunity. “When your case is called on again, show as much indifference about the result as you have hitherto shown anxiety; then tell your adversary that during this interval, which you spent in the shade of the woods, a Saligen Fraulein had appeared to you and advised you not to use any of the milk the one who appeared to the Senner had milked for you, because she was a mischievous one, and the milk she milked was bewitched, so that all who drank of it, or of any milk mixed with it—were it only one drop of it—would be turned into asses. Then add, ‘But of course, if your pailful is really the milk of your own cow, you have nothing to fear; so there’s an end of the dispute.’ Then he will probably be so frightened by the threat of this calamity that he will probably have nothing more to do with the pail; and that will suffice to prove that it is not the milk of his cow, and expose his deceit.”

The peasant was so delighted with the wise counsel that he hardly knew how to thank his benefactress, and readily gave her the promise she required of not letting any one know he had even seen her.

He had scarcely got back to the court when the case was called on again. The peasant carried out the advice he had received with great shrewdness, and found it answer completely. Every body applauded the craft by which he had confounded his would-be oppressor, and the judge himself was very much pleased to see the end of such a troublesome case.

A few minutes’ thought, however, suggested to him that there was more than a peasant’s shrewdness in the matter, and he was not slow to discern the guiding of his wife in it; so he called the peasant apart, and had little difficulty in wringing from the simple clown a confession of who had been his prompter.

The discovery made the judge set off homeward in great anger. His wife had broken her promise—the fundamental condition of their union; and he would have nothing more to say to her! Out of his house she must go, whithersoever she would, but far away out of his sight.

Katharina, who had so often calmed her father’s anger by her prudent reasoning, exerted herself to the utmost to bring her husband back to a better mind; but in vain. And all the concessions he would yield were, to consent that they should eat their last dinner together, and that she should take away with her one thing out of the house, whatever she had most fancy for. It was not much to obtain when required to part for ever from her home, and her hopes, and all to which she had grown united and attached—but it was all she could obtain.

Dinner-time came, and the judge, who was devotedly fond of his wife, seemed lost in sorrow at the calamity about to befall him; still he would not yield. Though she caressed him and entreated him to forgive her, he still said he could not depart from his word, and he would not allow her to speak of it. They sat down to their silent meal; and as the time of separation drew nearer he grew more sombre and sad, and at last determined to console himself with the red wine that sparkled by his side. Katharina encouraged him to drink, and as his bottle got exhausted deftly replaced it by a full one, so that he was quite unconscious of the depth of his potations.

Presently the steward came into the room ready to drive Katharina to whatever destination she should select, and, as he had heard it stipulated that she was to take with her whatever she liked best, proffered his services to assist in the removal—for she had won the respect and affection of all her dependants, and they delighted to be occupied for her.

Katharina rose to depart, thanked the man for his attention, and, in answer to his question as to the object she would take with her, pointed to her husband, who now lay helpless across his settle, his head drooping over the table.

The steward could scarcely believe his eyes, but Katharina had a way of giving orders which did not admit of being questioned. The first surprise over, too, it struck him as a capital device, and he entered heartily into the spirit of the scheme. With the help of a couple of serving-men the judge was deposited safely in the lumbering old carriage, and Katharina having taken her place beside him, they drove away by her direction over one of the worst and most uneven roads in the neighbourhood. The shaking of the vehicle presently awakened the sleeper, who was, of course, quite at a loss to conceive where he was, but, perceiving that he cut a rather silly figure, was ashamed to ask his wife, who sat by his side as if there was nothing amiss, and said nothing.

At last his curiosity got the better of his self-respect, and he begged her to tell him what all this trundling and shaking meant.

Katharina in a few words recalled to him his cruel decree, at the same time reminding him of his promise that she might take with her what she liked best, and, throwing her arms round him, asked him if there could be any doubt as to what that could be.

The judge perceived that his wife had once more shown her sense and judgment, and was not sorry to find she had contrived this opportunity of making up their difference. On renewing her petition for forgiveness, he frankly gave her his pardon; and they drove back home to live together in love and union to the end of their days.

THE GEESEHERDS.

There was once a peasant who had three sons, Karl, Stefan, and Josef; but, as he was very poor, they often had scarcely enough to eat, and were always complaining. So one day he told them that they should go out, one at a time, into the world, and see whether they could do better for themselves than he could do for them; and, having drawn lots which should go first, it fell upon the youngest.

Josef was not altogether sorry to see a little of what the world was made of, and started with break of day next morning on his travels. He went begging about the country, but for a long time could find nothing to make a living by. At last he came to a splendid mansion on the borders of a large forest. When he asked his usual question, whether there was any place vacant for him, the servants took him into the big house; and, after conducting him through a number of apartments, each more beautiful than the other, he was ushered into a vast hall, all panelled round with carved wood, with windows of painted glass, and filled with handsome furniture. Reclining in an easy-chair, sat an aged nobleman, the owner of the mansion, who, when he heard Josef’s request, took compassion on him, and told him he would take him into his service, beginning with giving him a very easy employment, and if he proved himself faithful in that, he would promote him to something higher. At first, then, he would only have to keep his geese; but there was one condition he would bid him observe.

Josef was so delighted with the prospect that he hastily interposed a promise of obeying it, before it was even uttered.

And that condition was, that if at any time he should hear any music or singing in the forest, he should never listen to it, however much he might be inclined, for that if he did, he would inevitably lose his place.

Josef repeated his promise, and swore that he would never listen to the music. He was then led down to the place where the other servants were gathered for supper, and as there was a whole crowd of them, and plenty of good food and drink, Josef began to think that he had fallen on to his feet indeed!

After supper, Josef was shown into a tidy little room as big as his father’s whole cottage, where was a nice little white bed, and a suit of clothes ready to put on when he got up. Though Josef liked good food and a good bed, he was by no means an idle boy, but rose very early in the morning for his new employment; and, having received from the cook his breakfast, and his wallet of provisions for the midday meal, turned out the geese, and drove them before him to the meadow skirting the forest.

Josef had never seen so many geese together before, and all the morning long he was never tired of looking at them, and counting them, observing their ways, fancying he discerned various peculiarities in each, by which to know one from another henceforth; and he began to give them all different names. When one showed an inclination to stray, what fun it was to drive her back, and see her flap her great, soft, white, awkward wings, and stretch out her great yellow bill, as with awkward gait she shambled back to the flock! So the morning went by; and it was long past the hour of dinner before Josef found any need of it, but when he did, he was astonished at the abundant supply which had been provided for him. “Truly, I did well to come out into the world,” he thought, as he lounged upon the greensward, eating the good food. “What a contrast between having this splendid mansion to live in, and my father’s poor cabin; between the dry crusts we had to eat there, and the princely food allowed to us here; between the toil and slavery there, and this easy kind of work, which might more properly be called a pastime! My father thought to punish me for grumbling, he would be astonished if he could see what a fine exchange I have made!” and he laughed aloud, though all alone. But presently the effects of the full meal, the heat of the afternoon, and the excitement of his new position brought on sensations of lassitude and somnolence—and soon you might have seen him stretched upon the grass at full length, and snoring to his heart’s content.

It is uncertain how long he had slept, but erewhile his slumber was disturbed by the sound of the most enchanting strains of music. Josef raised himself on his elbow, and listened; he had never imagined any thing so beautiful! and when he had listened a little while, he grew so rapt that he could not forbear going a little way into the forest to hear it better, and then a little farther, and farther, till, by the time it ceased, he was a long way from his charge. Then, as he perceived this, for the first time he remembered the condition his master had laid upon him, and his own positive promise to observe it! In shame and confusion he hasted back; but in place of his splendid flock of geese, there were but half a dozen, and those the worst favoured, to be seen! It was vain he called after them, and tore his hair, and ran hither and thither—no geese appeared! and as it began to get dark, he found his best plan was to hurry home with the few that remained.

When he arrived a servant was waiting to conduct him to the master. He no longer wore the benevolent smile with which he had first instructed Josef in the terms of his service. He looked so black and angry that the boy was frightened to approach him—too frightened to find a word in his defence.

“I had pity on you,” said the master, “because you entreated me to try you: you have broken your word, and I can trust you no more. I told you the penalty; now you have chosen to incur it, you must go.”

Josef could do nothing at first but cry, as he contemplated this sudden extinction of his dreams of ease and plenty, but he took courage to throw himself on his knees, and entreat one more trial. The master was inexorable—only, as he was rich and generous, he would not let him go away empty-handed, and he took out of a casket before him a gold pin, as a memorial of his good intention, and dismissed the boy with a gesture which admitted of no further parleying.

Josef was allowed to sleep in the mansion that night, but the next morning, instead of carrying on his agreeable occupation of geeseherd, he had to leave the place ignominiously, his rags being returned to him in place of the smart livery of the castle. Uncertain whither next to bend his steps, he determined to go home in the first instance and show his gold pin, and then take a fresh start in search of another chance.

As he got near his father’s cottage he went to take out the gold pin with glee, to have it ready to display. Great was his vexation, therefore, at discovering he had it no longer—nor could his searching bring it back any more than the geese! Josef burst into tears, and joined the family meal at home, which was just prepared as he arrived, with his head low bowed, as if he sought to hide himself for very shame.

When his father saw him in such melancholy plight, his compassion warmed to him, and he asked him kindly what had befallen. Josef told all his adventures, crying afresh as he came to the narration of how he had lost on the way the gold pin, to display which he had come home before starting in search of another chance of employment.

“Such chances don’t grow as thick as black-berries,” said Stefan, the second son: “instead of your going in search of another, I’ll go to the same grand house; and I won’t lose such a fine situation for the sake of ‘tweedle-dum,’ I can tell you! And whatever I get for wages, you may depend, I won’t stick it in my belt where it is sure to be brushed away, but on the brim of my hat, to be sure!”

Josef, who had had enough of trying to provide for himself, and was not sorry to be at home again, even with its scanty means, made no objection, and their father, thinking it well Stefan should have his experience of life too, approved the plan.

Stefan set out next morning, therefore; and by following Josef’s directions soon discovered the stately palace for which he was bound. The noble owner received him as kindly as Josef, and sent him out to the same employment, first binding him to observe the same condition. Stefan readily promised to keep it, and was formally installed into his office of geeseherd.

All went well enough at first, as with Josef; but it was at an even earlier period of the day than with him that his curiosity was roused by the fairy-like music. Then he, too, followed it through the forest; and when it ceased at sound of the church bells ringing the Ave, he found not more than three or four geese left of all his flock!

On his return the master was full of anger at his breach of trust, and inexorably resolved to turn him away; but not to let him go empty-handed, he gave him a little lamb to take home.

Stefan was pleased enough with his prize, but was somewhat embarrassed as to the manner of carrying it safely home. He had declared that whatever he got he would bring home on his hat, and though he had never thought of so embarrassing a present falling to him, at the time he spoke, he resolved to keep his word, and so used his best endeavours to fix the little creature round the brim.

He carried it thus great part of the way in safety, but having to cross a somewhat rapid stream, a projecting bough of a tree lifted his hat from his head—and both hat and lamb fell in, and were carried fast away by the torrent!

Stefan came back even more crestfallen than Josef; and, having told his story, Karl, the eldest, with great indignation at the carelessness of his brothers, declared that he would make the trial next. He would not stick his prize in his belt or his hat, not he! he would carry it by a string, and then it couldn’t get loose; and as for the music, he had no fear of being led away by that. Josef, indeed, had had some excuse, as the strains took him by surprise, but to be so foolish as Stefan, after the warning example of another, was perfectly contemptible. He couldn’t be so silly as that, not he!

He started on his way betimes, and toiled along not without some misgivings lest he should find so good a post already occupied by another. But it was not so: the owner of the mansion gave him the same reception, the same charge, and the same warning as the other two; and, full of confidence in his superiority, he went forth to his work.

The weather was cool, and he had no need to seek the shade of the forest trees; and for more than a week he brought the full tale of geese home day by day. “What idiots those were to throw away their place for the sake of a little music!” he thought to himself one day later. “I told them I should not be so foolish—not I! I told them I shouldn’t be led away by it, and I haven’t been.”

But it was hotter that day, and in the afternoon, when the sun’s power was greatest—forgetting the warning of his brothers’ example, or rather setting it at defiance, with the assurance that though he sought the shade he need not listen to the music—he crept within the border of the cool forest, and lay down.

He had hardly done so when his senses were rapt by the delicious but deceitful strains. “The woods must be full of fairies!” he cried; “this can be no earthly music—I must follow it up and see what manner of instruments they are, for never on earth was heard the like!” But as he went on, the music always seemed farther off, and farther again, till at last the church bells rang the Ave, and the music ceased.

Then Karl woke to a sense of his weakness and folly; and though he ran every step of the way back to his geese, only two were there! Though he had now found the same fate befall himself as his brothers, in all particulars, yet he could not forbear searching for the lost geese; but of course it was in vain, and he had to return to the castle with but two. Nothing could look more miserable, or more ludicrous, than this diminished procession—Karl at the head of his two geese, who had gone out in the morning with such a goodly flock.

He would have gladly slunk away without exchanging a word with any one, but he could not escape being taken before the master, who scolded him in the same words in which he had chided his brothers, but gave him a fine rich cake to take home.

The cake was round, and it was very inconvenient to attempt to secure it by means of a string, but Karl had declared he would bring home his reward that way, and so it was a point of honour with him to do it. But passing by a Hof, on his way home, where was a large and powerful watch-dog on guard, he set off running to escape its grip. This was the very way to attract the beast’s notice, however; and off it set in pursuit, much faster than Karl’s legs could carry him away—and then, having jumped upon him and knocked him down, seized his cake, and devoured it before his eyes!

Karl had now to go home as empty-handed as his brothers, and as full of tears; but his father comforted him, and checked the rising gibe of his youngers by reminding them that all had failed equally; so they all joined in a good-humoured laugh in which there was nothing of bitterness.

The father then asked them if any of them wished to go out into the world and seek fortune again; but they all agreed that there was nothing to be gained by the move, and that though there were positions which at first sight seemed more brilliant and more delectable than their own, yet that each had its compensatory trials, and that they were best where God had placed them.

Henceforth, however, they were ashamed of renewing their grumblings, but, each making the best of his lot, they became noted as the most contented and, therefore, happiest family of the whole valley.

In the days when our Lord and Saviour walked this earth with His apostles, it happened one day that He was passing, with St. Peter for His companion, through a secluded valley, and that discoursing, as was His wont, of the things of the Kingdom of God, and raising the mind of His disciple from the earthly to the heavenly, they noticed not how the hours went by. Nevertheless, they had been walking since daybreak over rough mountain tracks and across swollen torrents many a weary mile, and had eaten nothing all day, for their way had led them far from the haunts of men; but as noon came down upon them they approached the precincts of a scattered hamlet. The bells of all the large farm-houses were ringing to call in the labourers from the field to their midday meal, and announced a community of sensations in the world around akin to those with which St. Peter had for a long time past been tormented. The heat increased, and the way grew more weary, and St. Peter found it more and more difficult to keep his attention alive to his Master’s teaching.

The merciful Saviour was not slow to perceive what ailed His disciple, and kept on the look-out for any opportunity of satisfying him as anxiously as if the need had been His own; and thus, while St. Peter was still wondering how long he would have to go on fasting, He remarked to him the smell of fresh-baked loaves proceeding from a cottage at the bottom of the valley.

St. Peter could as yet perceive neither the scent nor the cottage. Nevertheless, used as he was to trust his Lord’s word implicitly, he started at His bidding, following the direction pointed out just as if both had been patent to himself.

The way was so steep and rough that St. Peter, in his eagerness, had many falls, but at last, without much damage, reached nearly the foot of the mountain range along the side of which they had been journeying; and then suddenly the smell of a wood fire, mingled with the welcome odour of fresh-baked bread, greeted him. The roof of the cottage was just beneath his feet, and the smoke was curling up through the chimney, telling of a well-provided stove, burning to good purpose, close at hand. One or two more winds of the road, and only one more slip over the loose stones, brought him to the door.

The apostle, having given the customary response, “In Ewigkeit! Amen,” the peasant wife asked him to come in and rest—an offer which St. Peter gladly accepted.

The peasant woman wiped a chair, and presented it to him, and, with some pleasant words about his journey, returned to her occupation at the fire. The moment had just arrived when she should take her loaves from the oven, and nothing could smell more tempting to a man whose appetite was seasoned by a long walk in the fresh mountain air.

“Good woman, I come from far, and the whole of this blessed morning,” he exclaimed, speaking as one of the people, “I have tasted nothing! ... nor my companion,” he added, with some embarrassment lest he should seem encroaching, yet full of anxiety to provide for his Master’s needs as well as his own.

“Tasted nothing all this morning!” exclaimed the compassionate peasant wife, scarcely leaving him time to speak; “poor soul! Why didn’t you say so at first? Here, take one of these loaves; they are the best I have, and, if humble fare, are at all events quite fresh. And your companion too, did you say? Take one for him also;” and then, as if she found so much pleasure in the exercise of hospitality that she could not refrain from indulging it further, she added, “and take this one too, if you will; maybe you may want it before the journey is out.”

St. Peter thanked her heartily for her generosity, and hasted to take the loaves to the Master, that He might bless and break them. But as they were hot, being just out of the oven, he had to wrap them in the folds of his coarse grey mantle, to be able to hold them without burning his hands.

As he toiled up the steep, the thought came to him, “It will most likely be long before we have a chance of meeting with provisions again, and I always seem to want food sooner than the Master; I might very well keep this third loaf under my cloak, and then in the night, while He is lost in heavenly contemplation, and I am perishing with hunger, I shall have something to satisfy it. I do Him no wrong, for He never feels these privations as I do—at all events,” he added, with some misgivings, “He never seems to.”

With that he reached the place where he had left the Saviour. He was still kneeling beneath the shade of a knoll of pines. As St. Peter approached, however, though He was not turned so as to see him coming, He rose, as if He knew of his presence, and, coming to meet him, asked him cheerfully what success he had in his catering.

“Excellent success, Lord,” replied St. Peter. “I arrived just at the right moment. The woman was taking the loaves out of the oven, and, being a good-hearted soul, she gave me one; and when I told her I had a companion with me, she gave me another, without requiring any proof of the assertion; so come, and let us break our fast, for it is time.” But he said no word about the third loaf, which he kept tight in a fold of his mantle under his arm.

They sat down on a rock by the side of a sparkling rivulet, hasting along its way to swell the far-off river, and its cool crystal waters supplied the nectar of their meal.

St. Peter, who had now long studied in the school of mortification of his Master, was quite satisfied with this frugal repast, and, no longer tortured by the cravings of nature, listened with all his wonted delight and enthusiasm to every word which fell from the Lord’s lips, treasuring them up that not one might be lost. It was true that he could not suppress some little embarrassment when the thought of the third loaf occurred to him; “But,” he said, to himself, “there could be no possible harm in it; the woman had clearly given it to him; his Lord didn’t want it, and he was only keeping it for his needs. True, if He were to suspect it, He would not quite like that; but then, why should He? He never suspects any one.”

Never had the Saviour been more familiar, more confiding. St. Peter felt the full charm of His presence and forgot all his misgivings, and the cause of them, too, in the joy of listening to Him. Then came a friendly bird, and hopped round Him, feeding on the crumbs that had fallen. The Saviour, as He watched its eagerness, fed it with pieces from His own loaf. Another bird was attracted at the sight—another, and another, and another, till there was a whole flock gathered round. The Saviour fed them all, and yet He seemed to take His own meal too.

“It is just as I thought,” St. Peter reasoned with himself; “His needs are not as our needs. Decidedly I do Him no wrong in keeping the loaf for my own.” And he felt quite at ease.

The simple repast was at an end; the birds chirped their thanks and flew away; and the disciple and the Master rose from their rocky seat.

St. Peter, leaning on his staff, set out to resume the journey, but the Lord called him back.

“Our Father in heaven has fed us well, shall we not thank Him as is our wont?”

St. Peter laid aside his staff, and cheerfully knelt down.

“But as He has dealt with particular loving-kindness in the abundance with which He has provided us this day, let us address Him with arms outstretched, in token of the earnestness of our gratitude,” continued the Saviour; and as He spoke He flung His arms wide abroad, as if embracing the whole universe and its Creator, with an expression of ineffable love.

He knelt opposite St. Peter, who was not wont to be slow in following such an exhortation.

“He only suggested it; He didn’t command.” reasoned St. Peter to himself. “I need not do it.”

But a furtive glance he could not repress, met the Master’s eye fixed upon him with its whole wonted affection—there was no resisting the appeal. With the spontaneity of habitual compliance, he raised his arms after the pattern of his Lord; but the loaf, set free by the motion, fell heavily to the ground beneath the Master’s eye.

The Master continued praying, as though He had perceived nothing, but St. Peter’s cheeks were suffused with a glow of shame; and before they proceeded farther he had told Him all.

St. Peter had two young cousins whom he sought to bring up in the way of righteousness according to Christian doctrine. As they were very docile, and listened gladly to his word, he strove to lead them in the way of all perfection; and to this end counselled them to give themselves up entirely to serve God in a community of His handmaidens, where they should live for the Divine spouse of their souls, and for Him alone.

The work of the Church called St. Peter away from the East, and he was already gone to establish the faith in Rome before the maidens had decided as to their vocation. It was not till many years after that St. Peter heard, to his surprise, on occasion of St. Timothy coming to visit St. Paul in Rome, that while the youngest indeed had fulfilled his expectations, and had given herself up to the religious life, the elder had married and established herself in the world, and become the mother of a large family.

During his long confinement in the dark dungeon of the Mamertine prison, St. Peter’s thoughts would often revert from the immense cares of his sublime office to the quiet hours he had passed in the lowly dwelling by the Lake of Tiberias, where his pious cousins had so often sat at his feet listening to his instructions. And he found a peaceful pleasure in recalling the way in which they had responded to them; the spontaneity with which they had apprehended the maxims of the new religion; their fervour in applying them to their own rule of life; their readiness to go beyond what was bidden them, that so they might testify their love for their Divine Master; their delight in all that reminded them of God and His law.

“And to think that one of them should have gone back from all this! should have been content to give up these exalted aspirations! How sadly her ardour must have cooled! What could have worked this change?” the apostle would muse, in his distress, and pray silently for her forgiveness and guidance; but his thoughts would revert with greater affection and satisfaction to the more favoured state of the soul of the younger sister.

It was not long before the terrible decree of Nero consigning St. Peter to the death of the cross was pronounced, and from the height of the Janiculum he was received into the celestial mansion to keep the gate of the Kingdom of Heaven.

He had not exercised this office many years when our Lord called him to Him one day, and bid him open the gate of heaven to its widest stretch and deck its approaches as for a high festival, for that one of the holiest of earth and the dearest to Himself was to be received into the abode of the Blessed.

“That must be my youngest cousin,” said St. Peter, “there is no doubt; she who generously gave up a world in which she was so well adapted to shine, to live a life of perfection with God above only for its object;” and he strained his eyes to see far along the approach to Paradise, that he might catch the first glimpse of her glorified soul and greet it with the earliest welcome.

Not many days after our Lord called St. Peter to Him again, and told him to open the gate a little, very little way, and to make no preparations for rejoicing, for He had promised admission to a soul who, though of his family, yet had only escaped being excluded by a hair’s breadth.

St. Peter went away perplexed, for he knew there was no one of his family who could be coming to heaven just at that time except the younger of the two cousins, and how could the Lord’s words apply to her?

He durst do no more than open the gate a very little way, but stationed himself opposite that small cleft to obtain the earliest information as to who the new comer really was.

When St. Peter afterwards came to discourse with the Lord about His dealings with the two souls, he learnt that she who performed her duty with great exactness and perfection in the world was more pleasing in His sight than she who, while straining after the fulfilment of a higher rule, yet fell short of correspondence with so great a grace.

LUXEHALE’S WIVES.

The Devil goes wandering over the earth in many disguises, and that not only to hunt souls; sometimes it is to choose for himself a wife, but when he goes on these expeditions he calls himself “Luxehale.”

There was once a very beautiful princess, very proud of her beauty, who had vowed she would never marry any but the handsomest prince. Numbers of princes, who heard the fame of her beauty, came to ask her hand, but directly she saw them she declared they were not handsome enough for her, and drove them out of the city. Her parents were in despair, for there was scarcely any young prince left in the world whom she had not thus rejected.

One day the trumpeters sounded the call by which they were wont to announce the arrival of a visitor.

The princess sat with her mother in an arbour.

“Ah!” said the queen, “there is another come to ask your hand. How I wish he may be the really handsome one you desire, this time!”

“It is all useless, mother; I don’t mean to see any more of them—they are all uglier, one than the other.”

The queen was about to answer by instancing several noted paragons of manly beauty whom she had rejected like the rest, but the chamberlain came in with great importance just at that moment, to say that the prince who had just arrived appeared to be a very great prince indeed, and that he was in a great hurry, and demanded to see the princess instantly.

The princess was very indignant at this abrupt proposal, and refused absolutely to see him; but at last the queen got her to consent to place herself in a hollow pillar in the great reception-hall, and through a little peephole, contrived in the decorations, take a view of him without his knowing that she did so.

When the princess thus saw the stranger, she was dazzled with the perfection of his form and the surpassing beauty of his countenance, and she could hardly restrain herself from darting from her hiding-place and offering him her hand at once; in order to preserve herself from committing such a mistake, she immediately let herself down through a little trap-door into the room below, where it had been agreed that her mother should meet her.

“Well, what did you think of him?” said the queen, who did not keep her long waiting.

“Oh! I think he might do,” said the princess, with an assumed air of indifference, for she was too proud to acknowledge how much she admired him.

The queen was overjoyed that at length she consented to marry, and so put an end to the anxiety she was in to see her established before she died. That she might not take it into her head to go back from what she had said, her parents hastened on the wedding preparations, and the prince seemed very anxious, too, that no delay should occur. As soon as the festivities were over, he handed his bride into a magnificent gold coach, and drove off with her, followed by a retinue which showed he was a very great prince indeed.

Away they rode many days’ journey, till at last they reached a palace of greater magnificence than any thing the princess had ever conceived, filled with crowds of servants, who fulfilled her least wish almost before it was uttered, and where every pleasure and every gratification was provided for her in abundance.

The prince took great pleasure in conducting her frequently over every part of the palace, and it was so vast that, after she had been over it many times, there was still much which seemed strange to her; but what was strangest of all was, there was one high door, all of adamant, which the prince never opened, and the only cross word he had spoken to her was once when she had asked him whither it led.

After some time it happened that the prince had to go on a considerable journey, and before he left he confided to his wife the keys of all the apartments in the palace, but she observed the key of the adamant door was not among them, and ventured to ask why it was not.

“Because no one passes through that door but myself; and I advise you not to think any thing more about that door, or you may be sure you will repent it,” and he spoke very sternly and positively.

This only whetted her curiosity still more; and she was no sooner sure he was at a safe distance, than she determined to go down and see if some of the keys would not open this door. The first she tried in it showed there was no need of any, for it was unlocked, and pushed open at her touch. It gave entrance to a long underground passage, which received a strange lurid light from the opening at the far end.

The princess pursued the ominous corridor with beating heart; and, when she reached the other end, made the frightful discovery that it was—the entrance to hell!

Without losing a moment, she rushed up-stairs, regained her own apartment, and sat down to contrive her escape, for she now perceived that it was the Devil, disguised as a beautiful prince, that she had married!

As she sat, pursued by a thousand agonizing thoughts, the gentle cooing of two pigeons in a cage soothed her, and reminded her of home.

Her father’s fondness had suggested that she should take the birds with her that she might have the means of communicating to him how it fared with her in her married home. Quickly she now wrote a note to tell him of the discovery she had made, and begging him to deliver her. She tied the note to one of the pigeons, and let them fly.

The Devil came back in the same disguise, and was profuse in his caresses; and he never thought of her having opened the door. But all the princess’s affection and admiration for him were gone, and it was with the greatest difficulty she contrived to keep up an appearance of the fondness she had formerly so warmly and so sincerely lavished.

Meantime the pigeons went on their way, and brought the note home. The king and queen were having dinner on the terrace, and with them sat a young stranger, named Berthold, conversing with them, but too sad to taste the food before him. He was one of those the princess had rejected without seeing, but as he had seen her, he was deeply distressed at the present separation. The pigeons flew tamely in narrowing circles round the king’s head, and, at last, the one which carried the note came fluttering on to the table before him. He would have driven them away, the rather, that they were all distressed and bleeding, and with scarcely a feather left, but the young stranger’s eye discovered the note, which was quickly opened and read.

“Oh, help me! What can I do?” exclaimed the king; “give me some counsel. How can I ever reach the Devil’s palace—and how could I fight him, if even I did get there?”

“May I be permitted to undertake the deliverance?” asked the stranger.

“Oh, in heaven’s name, yes!” cried the king.

“And shall I have your permission to pay my addresses to her when I bring her back?”

“Why, she will be yours—yours of right, if you succeed in rescuing her; altogether yours!”

“That must depend on herself. Nevertheless, if I have your consent to ask her in marriage, that is all I desire.”

“Go, and succeed!” devoutly exclaimed the king. “And whatever you stand in need of, be it men or money, or arms, you have but to command, and every thing shall be given you that you require.”

But the prince, who knew not what sort of enemy he had to encounter, or which way he had to go, knew not what assistance to ask for, but set out, trusting in God and his own good sense to guide him.

As he passed out of the castle enclosure his eyes were rejoiced to see lying on the ground some of the white feathers of the carrier-pigeons, and then he perceived that, not having been duly matched, they had fought all the way, and that the whole track was marked with their feathers. But as they, of course, had come by the directest course, it led him over steep precipices and wild, unfrequented places; still Berthold pursued his way through all difficulties without losing courage, and ever as he went pondering in his own mind with what arts he should meet the Devil.

He was passing through a desolate stony place, which seemed far from any habitations of men, when he saw a man crouching by the wayside, with his ear close against the rock.

“What are you doing there?” said Berthold.

“I am listening to what is going on in the Devil’s house,” answered the man, “for my sense of hearing is so fine, it carries as far as that.”

“Then come with me,” said Berthold; “I will find work for you which shall be well repaid.”

So the man left off listening, and walked on behind him.

A little farther on, he observed a man sitting on a ledge of the precipice, with his back to the road, and with all the world before him; and he gazed out into the far distance.

“What are you staring at?” said Berthold.

“I am gazing into the Devil’s house,” said the man, “for my sight is so sharp, it carries as far as that.”

“Then come along with me; I will give your eyes work that shall be well paid.” said Berthold.

So the man left off gazing, and turned and walked behind him.

“But stop!” said the prince; “let me have some little proof that you are as clever as you say. If you can see and hear into the Devil’s house, let me know what the Devil’s wife is doing.”

Then the first man crouched down with his ear against the rock; and the second man sat himself astride on a jutting projection of the precipice, and gazed abroad over the open space—Berthold taking care that they should be far enough apart not to communicate with each other.

“What do you see?” he said, when the second man had poised himself to his own satisfaction.

“I see a vast apartment, all of shining crystal, and the Devil lying fast asleep on a ledge of the flaming spar, while the Devil’s wife sits with averted face, and weeps.”

“And what do you hear?” he said, returning to the first man.

“I hear the Devil snore like the roaring of a wild beast, and I hear great sighs of a soft woman’s voice; and every now and then she says, ‘Why was I so foolish and haughty, as to send away all those noble princes whom I might have learnt to love? and above all, Berthold, whom I would not see, and who my mother said was better than them all; and I would not see him! If I could but see him now, how I would love him!’”

When Berthold heard that, he could not rest a minute longer, but told them he was satisfied; and hurried on so fast that they could scarce keep up with him.

On they went thus; and presently they saw a man amusing himself with lifting great boulders of rock, which he did so deftly that no one could hear him move them.

“You have a rare talent,” said Berthold; “come along with me, and I will pay your service well.”

So the man put down a great mass of rock he had in his arms, and walked on behind the prince.

Presently there were no more pigeons’ feathers to be seen, and Berthold wrung his hands in despair at losing the track.

“See!” said the man with the sharp sight, “there they lie, all down this steep, and along yonder valley, and over that high mountain! it will take three months to traverse that valley.”

“But it is impossible to follow along there at all!” cried all the men. But Berthold said they must find their way somehow.

While they were looking about to find a path to descend by, they saw a great eagle soaring round and round, flapping her wings, and uttering plaintive cries.

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” said the man with the sharp hearing: “one of her eggs has fallen down this ledge, and it is too narrow for her to get it out; I can hear the heart of the eaglet beating through the shell.”

“Eagle,” said the prince, “if I take out your egg, and give it to you, will you do something for me?”

“Oh, yes, any thing!” said the eagle.

“Well, that is a hot, sunny ledge,” said the prince; “your egg won’t hurt there till we come back—I have seen in my travels some birds which hatch their eggs entirely in the hot sand. Now you take us all on your back, and fly with us along the track wherever you see the pigeons’ feathers, and wait a few minutes while we complete our business there, and then bring us back; and then I’ll take your egg out of the fissure for you.”

“That’s not much to do!” said the eagle; “jump up, all of you.”

So they all got on the eagle’s back, the prince taking care so to arrange his men that the great neck and outstretched wings of the eagle should hide them from the Devil’s sight, should he have happened to be outside his house.

It took the eagle only two or three hours to reach the journey’s end, and by this time it was night.

“And now it is dark,” said Berthold, to the sharp-visioned man, as they alighted from the eagle’s back, “you cannot help us any more with your sight.”

“Oh, yes; the crystals of the Devil’s apartment always glitter with the same red glare by night or day. I see the Devil rolled up in bed fast asleep, and his wife sits on a chair by his side, and weeps.”

“And what do you hear?” he said, addressing the first attendant.

“I hear snoring and weeping, as before,” said the man addressed.

“Now you, who are so clever at lifting weights without being heard,” said the prince, “lift the great door off its hinges.”

“That’s done,” replied the man, a minute later, for he had done it so quietly Berthold was not aware he had moved from the spot.

“Since you have done this so well, I’m sure you’ll do the next job. You have now to go up into the Devil’s room, and bring the lady down without the least noise; if you show her this token, she will recognize it for her father’s device, and will come with you.”

The sharp-visioned man told him how he would have to go, for he could see all the inside of the house, lighted up as it was with the glaring crystals. But just as he was about to start,—

“Stop!” cried the man with the sharp ears; “I hear the Devil turn in his bed; our talking must have disturbed him.” So they all stood stock still in great fear.

“He seems to be getting up,” whispered the man with the sharp sight. “No; now he has turned round and rolled himself up once more.”

“And now he is snoring again,” continued the other.

“Then we may proceed,” replied the prince; and the third attendant went his way so softly that no one heard him go.

“Get up on the eagle’s back,” said Berthold to the other two, “that we may be ready to start immediately.” So the men took their places.

They had hardly done so when the man came back bearing the princess, and at a sign from Berthold sprang with her on to the eagle’s neck. The prince got up behind, and away flew the eagle—so swiftly that had he been less collected he might have lost his balance before he had secured his seat.

By daybreak they had reached the spot where the eagle’s egg had fallen. Berthold willingly exerted himself to restore her treasure to her, and she was so grateful that she proposed to fly with them home the remainder of the journey—an offer which they gladly accepted.

The Devil was still sleeping and snoring, they were assured by the clever attendants; and away they sped, reaching home just as the king and queen were sitting down to breakfast.

Great was the rejoicing in all the palace. The princess gladly acknowledged Berthold’s service by giving him her hand; and to all three attendants high offices were given at court. To the eagle was offered a gold cage and two attendants to wait on her, but she preferred liberty on her own high mountain, and flew away, accepting no reward but a lamb to carry home to her young ones.

When Luxehale woke next morning great was his fury to find that the princess was gone.

“Order out a troop of horse, and send and demolish her palace, and kill all belonging to her, and bring her home again,” was the advice of his chamberlain.

“No,” replied Luxehale; “I hate violence: I have other ways at command which I find answer better. There are people enough in the world glad enough to follow me willingly. It is not worth while to give myself much trouble with those who resist.” And he dressed himself, and walked out.

This time his steps were not directed towards a grand palace. He didn’t care particularly about birth or cultivation. There was a cottage situated just above one of the alleys of his pleasure-grounds where lived three beautiful peasant girls with an old father. Luxehale had often listened to their merry laugh and thought how he should like to have one of them for his wife; but he never could find any means of getting at them, as they were very quiet and modest, and never would enter into conversation with any stranger.

As he now walked along he heard their voices in earnest talk.

“It’s great nonsense of father selling all the celery, and not letting us have a taste of it!” said one, in a discontented voice.

“Yes, it is; I don’t mean to submit to it either,” said another.

“Oh, but you wouldn’t disobey father!” said the first.

Luxehale was very glad when he heard that, for he had never been able to catch them in an act of disobedience before. He placed himself under the celery-bed and watched all the roots. The moment one began to shake, showing that they were pulling it up, Luxehale took hold of the root, and held it hard, so that, instead of their pulling it up, he contrived to drag down the girl who was trying to gather it.

It was the peasant’s eldest daughter Lucia; and much surprised was she, after passing through the hole Luxehale had made in the earth, to find herself in the arms of a handsome cavalier, who lavished the greatest care on her! Lucia had never been spoken to by such a good-looking gallant before, and felt much pleased with his attention. She begged him, however, to let her go; but he told her that was impossible. She was his captive, and he never meant to let her go again; but if she would only be quiet and reasonable she would be happier than any queen; that he would take her to a magnificent palace where she would have every thing she desired, and be as happy as the day was long, for he would make her his wife. In fact, he succeeded in dazzling her so with his promises that she began to feel a pleasure in going with him.

Nor did he break these promises. She was installed into all the enjoyments of which we have seen the former wife in possession; and as the Devil admired her beauty, and flattered and fondled her, she did not altogether regret her captivity. But when the time came that he had to go upon earth about his business, he brought her all the keys of the place, with the express recommendation that she was never to attempt to open the adamant door; then he plucked a red rose, and placed it in her bosom, as a memorial of him, which he promised should not fade till his return, and departed.

Lucia amused herself very well at first with various occupations and amusements the palace afforded, and which were new to her; but as the days fled by she began to grow weary, and at last, from being tired and out of spirits with her loneliness, she became possessed with so intense a curiosity to see what lay hid behind the adamant door, that she could not resist it.

Accordingly she went down at last, with the bunch of keys in her hand, and with trembling steps made her way up to it. But, without even trying one of the keys, she found her touch pushed it open, and made the terrible discovery, that it was the gate of hell! She turned to escape, and rushed back to her apartment, to weep bitterly over her forlorn condition.

Two or three days later a train of waggons came laden with beautiful presents Luxehale had bought and sent home to amuse her, and she became so interested in turning them all over, that when he returned she was as bright and smiling as if nothing had happened.

Luxehale ran to embrace her, but suddenly observed that the rose had withered on her bosom! When he saw that, he pushed her from him. He had given it to her as a test to ascertain whether she had gone through the adamant door, for the heat of the fire was sure to tarnish it—and now he knew she was in possession of his secret.

“You have opened the adamant door!” he exclaimed, fiercely; and she, seeing him so fierce, thought it better to deny it.

“It is useless to deny it,” he replied; “for nothing else would have tarnished that rose.” And saying that, he dragged her down to it and thrust her within its enclosure, saying, “You wanted to know what there was behind the adamant door; now you will know all about it.”

Luxehale now had to look out for another wife. He at once bethought him of Lucia’s sisters, and went pacing up and down under their garden, as before. The two sisters were talking with some warmth.

“I don’t see why father should have forbidden us to look through the trellis!” said the voice which had spoken first on the former occasion.

“Nor I,” said the other. “And I don’t mean to be kept in in that style either,” said the other.

Quick as thought the Devil transformed himself into a serpent and worked his way up through the earth to the other side of the trellis, where he waited till the maiden put her head through, as she had threatened. She had no sooner done so than he caught her in his coils and carried her down under the earth. Before she had time to recover from her surprise, he had transformed himself back into the handsome cavalier who had charmed Lucia.

It was the second sister, Orsola; and her opposition to his advances was as easily overcome as Lucia’s. She lived in the palace as Lucia had done, and learnt to feel great delight in its pleasures. At last the day came when the Devil had to go upon earth about his business, and he left her with the same charge about the adamant door, and placed a red rose on her breast, which he promised should not fade till his return. After a time her weariness induced Orsola to peep through the fatal door; and the hot blast which escaped as she opened it would have been sufficient to drive her away, but that it came charged with the sound of a familiar voice!

“Lucia!” she screamed, in a voice thrilled with horror.

“Orsola!” returned her unhappy sister, in a tone of agony.

Orsola knew enough. She did not dare venture farther; and as she made her way back to her apartment she saw in the court below the retinue which had escorted her husband back. Assuming as composed a mien as possible, she went out to meet him, and he ran towards her with every appearance of affection—but his eye caught the withered rose.

“You have opened the adamant door,” he said, sternly. “There is no help for you; those who once pass it cannot live up above here any more. You must go back, and live there for ever!” And, regardless of her entreaties and cries, he dragged her down, and thrust her into the burning pit.

Luxehale now had to search for another wife, and he determined it should be no other than the third of the sisters. “But,” he reflected, as he walked towards her cottage, “now she has no one left to talk to, how shall I manage? Ah, well, I generally find a way to do most things I take in hand—and if I don’t catch her I needn’t break my heart; there are plenty of girls in the world whom I have arts to enthrall.”

But he did hear her voice. As he got near she was singing, very sadly and sweetly, a verse which told her regrets for her sisters, and called on them to return.

“That’s all right!” said Luxehale, “she is sure to come to the spot where she last saw her sister. I’ll be there!”

So, transforming himself once more into a serpent, he wriggled through the earth and took up his place of observation beside the trellis. He had not been there long, when she actually came up to it, singing the same melancholy strains; and then she stopped to call, “Lucia! Orsola! Lucia! Orsola!” till the woods rang again. Then she seemed to get weary with calling, and she leant against the trellis.

“Ha! she’ll soon put her head through now,” chuckled Luxehale. And so she did, sure enough; and no sooner did her head appear on the other side than he twisted his coils round her and dragged her down under the earth.

Before she recovered herself he once more appeared as a handsome cavalier.

It was Regina, the youngest and best-conducted of the sisters.

“Let me go! let me go!” she cried, refusing to look at him.

“I thought I heard you calling for your sisters,” he replied, soothingly; “don’t you want to see them?”

“Oh, yes! tell me where they are.”

“I can’t tell you where they are,” he answered; “and if I did, it would be of no use, because you would not know the way to where they are. But if you come with me, it is possible we may be able to hear something about them some day. One thing is certain, no one else is so likely to be able to hear of them as I.”

Regina was terribly perplexed, something within her said she ought not to speak to the stranger gallant. “And yet, on the other hand, if, by going with him, I can do any thing to recover my dear sisters,” she thought, “I ought to risk something for that.”

When he saw her hesitate, he knew his affair was won; and, indeed, it required little persuasion to decide her now. As they went along he said so many soft and flattering things as to make her forget insensibly about her sisters. But when they got to the palace there were such a number of beautiful things to occupy her attention, so much to astonish her—a poor peasant maid who had never seen any of these fine things before—that she soon got habituated to her new life, and the fact of her having come for her sisters’ sake went quite out of her remembrance.

Luxehale was delighted to have brought things so far; and in proportion to the difficulty he had had in winning her, was the satisfaction he felt in being with her; thus he spent a longer time with her than he had with either of the other sisters. But the time came at last when he had to go upon earth about his business; and then he gave her the same charge as the others about the keys and the adamant door, and the rose which was not to fade till his return.

It was not many days either before the desire to see what was hid behind it took possession of her; but as she approached it she already perceived that the air that came from it was dry and heated, and as she really regarded the rose as a token of affection, she was concerned to keep it fair and fresh, so she went back and placed it in a glass of water, and then pursued her investigation of the secret of the adamant door.

She had learnt enough when she had but half opened it, and smelt the stifling fumes of sulphur which issued from the pit it guarded, and would have turned to go, but then her sisters’ voices, wailing in piteous accents, met her ear.

“Lucia! Orsola!” she cried.

“Regina!” they replied; and then, courageously advancing farther by the light of the lurid flames, which burnt fitfully through the smoke, now red with a horrid glare, now ashy grey and ghastly, she descried the beloved forms of her sisters writhing and wailing, and calling on her to help them.

She promised to use all her best endeavours to release them, and, in the meantime, bid them keep up their courage as best they might, and be on the look-out to take advantage of the first chance of escape she could throw in their way. With that she returned to her apartment, replaced the rose in her bosom, and looked out for the return of Luxehale. Nor did he keep her long waiting; and when he saw the rose blooming as freshly as at the first he was delighted, and embraced her with enthusiasm. In fact, he was so smiling and well inclined that she thought she could not do better than take advantage of his good humour to carry out the plan she had already conceived.

“Do you know,” she said, “I don’t like the way in which your people wash my things; they dry them in a hot room. Now I’ve always been accustomed to dry them on the grass, where the thyme grows, and then they not only get beautifully aired, but they retain a sweet scent of the wild thyme which I have always loved since the days when I was a little, little girl, and my mother used to kiss me when she put on my clean things.”

“It shall be done as you like,” said Luxehale. “I will order a field of thyme to be got ready immediately, and your things shall always be dried upon it. Is there nothing else, nothing more difficult, I can do for you?”

“Well, do you know,” she replied—for this would not have answered her purpose at all—“do you know, I don’t fancy that would be quite the same thing either; there is something peculiar about the scent of our grass and our thyme at home which is very dear to me. Wouldn’t it be possible to send the things home?”

Luxehale looked undecided.

“It’s the only thing wanted to make this beautiful place perfectly delightful,” she continued.

He couldn’t resist this, and promised she should do as she liked.

Regina then ordered a large box to be made, and packed a quantity of her things into it. But in the night when all slept she went down to the adamant door, and called Lucia.

Both sisters came running out. “One at a time!” she said. “Lucia has been in longest; it will be your turn next.” So she took Lucia up with her, and hid her in the box under the clothes, and told her what she had to do. She was to send all the linen back clean at the end of the week, and well scent it with thyme, and to fill up the vacant space with more linen, so that it might not seem to return with less in it than when it went. She told her also, if the porter who carried the box should take into his head to peep in, “all you have to say is, ‘I see you!’ and you will find that will cure him.” Then she went to bed, and slept quietly till morning.

Early next day Luxehale called a porter to carry the box, to whom she overheard him giving secret instructions that, as soon as he had got to a good distance, he should search the box, and let him know what was in it before he sent him up to her for final orders.

Regina told him all about the situation of her father’s cottage. “But,” she added, “I’ve had my eye on you a long time—you’re not a bad sort of fellow, but you’re too curious.”

“Why, I’ve never been where your worship could see me!” answered the porter; “I’ve always worked in the stables.”

“I can see every where!” replied Regina, solemnly. “I can see you in the stables as well as I can see you here, and as well as I shall be able to see you all the way you are journeying; and if an impertinent curiosity should take you to look at my clothes, I shall see you, you may be sure, and shall have you properly punished, so beware!”

The porter planted the chest on his strong shoulders and walked away. He was a devil-may-care sort of fellow, and didn’t altogether believe in Regina’s power of seeing “every where,” and, as his master’s injunction to look into the box accorded much better with his own humour than Regina’s order to abstain from opening it, before he had got halfway he set it down on the ground, and opened it.

“I see you!” said Lucia, from within; and her voice was so like her sister’s that the fellow made no doubt it was Regina herself who really saw him as she had threatened; and, clapping the box to again in a great fright, lifted it on to his shoulders with all expedition.

“I’ve brought your daughter’s linen to be washed!” cried the porter, when he arrived at the cottage, to the father of the Devil’s wives, who was in his field “breaking” Indian corn. “I’ve got a message to carry about a hundred miles farther and shall be back by the end of the week, so please have it all ready for me to take back when I call for it.”

He had no sooner departed than Lucia started up out of the box of linen, and hastily told her father all the story. The peasant’s hair stood on end as he listened, but they felt there was no time to be lost. All the linen Regina had sent, and all that remained in the cottage, was washed and well scented with thyme, and packed smoothly into the box for the porter to take back with him. They had hardly got it all ready when he came to the gate to ask for it.

“Here you are!” said the peasant; and the porter lifted the box on to his strong shoulders, and made the best of his way home.

“What did you find when you looked into the box?” asked the Devil, the first time he could catch the porter alone.

“Oh! nothing whatever but dirty linen,” replied he, too much of a braggadocio to confess that he had been scared by a woman’s voice.

After receiving this testimony the Devil made no sort of obstacle any more to his wife sending a box home whenever she would, and as soon as she collected sufficient to justify the use of the large chest she ordered the porter to be ready over night, and then went down and called Orsola.

Orsola came quickly enough, and was packed into the linen chest as her sister had been, and with the same instructions. “Only, as I don’t mean to stay here much longer behind, there is no reason why we should lose all our best linen, so don’t send a great deal back this time, but fill up the box with celery, of which Luxehale is very fond.”

The porter, feeling somewhat ashamed of his pusillanimity on the last occasion, determined this time to have a good look into the box, for the effect of his fright had worn off, and he said to himself, “It was only a foolish fancy—I couldn’t really have heard it.”

So he had hardly got half way when he set the box down, and lifted the lid.

“I see you!” exclaimed Orsola, in a voice so like Regina’s that the lid slipped out of his hand, and fell upon the box with a crash which startled Orsola herself. He loaded the box on his shoulders once more, nor stopped again till he reached his destination.

Hearty was the greeting of the two sisters and their father as soon as he was gone; and then they set to work to get the washing done.

“The weather has been so bad,” said the father, when the porter returned, “that we could not dry all the linen, please to say to your mistress, but we hope to have it ready to go back with next week’s; beg her acceptance, however, of the celery which I have packed into the box in its place.”

“Did you look into the box this time?” said Luxehale, as soon as he got the porter alone.

The porter did not like to acknowledge that he had been scared by a woman, and so declared again that there was nothing in the box but linen.

It was more difficult to arrange for her own escape, but Regina had a plan for all. The box had now gone backwards and forwards often enough for the porter to need no fresh directions, so she told him over-night where he would find it in the morning; and he, finding it seem all as usual, loaded it on his shoulders, and walked off with it by the usual path.

He had not performed half the journey when he determined to have a serious look into the box this time, and be scared by no one. Accordingly he lifted the lid, but this time the words,—

“I see you!” came out of the box so unmistakably in Regina’s voice, that there was no room for doubt of her power of seeing him, and with more haste than ever he closed it up again, and made the best of his way to the peasant’s cottage.

Both sisters and their father greeted Regina as their good angel and deliverer when she stepped out of the box; and they went on talking over all their adventures with no need to make haste, for Regina had brought away with her money and jewels enough to make them rich for the rest of their lives, so that they had no need to work any more at all.

When the porter returned to ask for the linen-chest, the peasant came out with a humorous smile, and bid him tell his master that they had not time to do the washing that week.

“But what shall I tell my mistress?” asked the man.

As he said so, Regina and her sisters came into the room, striking him dumb with astonishment.

“No, you had better not go back to him,” she said, compassionating him for the treatment that would have awaited him, had he returned without her; “Luxehale would doubtless vent his fury on you for my absence. Better to stay here and serve us; and you need not fear his power as long as you keep out of his territory.”

After this, Luxehale determined to give up young and pretty wives, since they proved sharp enough to outwit him, as he had before given up rich and titled ones, who were like to have knights and princes to deliver them.

This time he said he would look out for a bustling woman of good common sense, who had been knocked about in the world long enough to know the value of what he had to offer her.

So he went out into the town of Trient, and fixed upon a buxom woman of the middle class, who was just in her first mourning for her husband, and mourned him not because she cared for him, for he had been a bad man, and constantly quarrelled with her, but because, now he was dead, she had no one to provide for her, and after a life of comparative comfort, she saw penury and starvation staring her in the face.

The Devil overheard her, and perceived she was just in the mood for his purpose, but took care to appear to have heard nothing.

“And are you still charitably mourning because the Devil has taken your tyrant of a husband?”

“Not because he has taken him, but because he didn’t take me too, at the same time!” answered the woman, pettishly.

“What! did you love the old churl as much as all that?” asked Luxehale.

“Love him! what put that into your head? But I didn’t want to be left here to starve, I suppose.”

“Come along with me then, and you shan’t starve. You shall have a jollier time of it than with the old fool who is dead—plenty to eat and drink, and no lack, and no work!”

“That’s not a bad proposition, certainly; but, pray, who are you?”

“I am he who you regretted just now had not taken you. I will take you, if you wish, and make you my wife.”

“You the Devil!” exclaimed the woman, eyeing the handsome person he had assumed from head to foot; “impossible, you can’t be the Devil!”

“You see the Devil’s not so black as he’s painted,” replied Luxehale. “Believe me that is all stuff, invented by designing knaves to deceive silly people. You can see for yourself if I don’t look, by a long way, handsomer and taller than your departed spouse, at all events.”

“There’s no saying nay to that,” responded the widow.

“Nor to my other proposition either,” urged Luxehale; and, as he found she ceased to make any resistance, he took her up in his arms, and, spreading his great bat’s wings, carried her down to his palace, where he installed her as lady and mistress, much to her own satisfaction.

As she was fond of luxury and ease, and had met with little of it before, the life in the Devil’s palace suited her uncommonly well, and yet, though she had every thing her own way, her bad temper frequently found subject for quarrel and complaint.

It was on one occasion when her temper had thus been ruffled, and she had had an angry dispute with Luxehale, who to avoid her wrangling had gone off in a sullen mood to bed, that some one knocked at the door. All the servants were gone to bed, so she got up, and asked who was there.

“I, Pangrazio Clamer of Trient,” said a somewhat tremulous voice.

“Pangrazio Clamer of Trient!” returned the widow; “come in, and welcome. But how did you get here?”

“It’s a longish story; but, first, how did you get here, and installed here too, it seems? Ah, Giuseppa, you had better have married me!”

“I’ve forbidden you to talk of that,” answered Giuseppa. “Besides, I had not better have married you, for I have married a great prince, who is able to keep me in every kind of luxury, and give me every thing I can wish. You couldn’t have done that.”

“No, indeed,” he sighed.

“Well, don’t let’s talk any more about that. Tell me how every one is going on in Trient.”

“By-and-by, if there is time. But, first, let me tell you about myself, and what brought me here. That’s strange enough.”

“Well, what was it, then?”

“You know that you refused to have me, because I was poor——”

“I have already forbidden you to allude to that subject.”

“You must know, then, that though I worked so hard to try and make myself rich enough to please you, I only got poorer and poorer; while at the same time, there was Eligio Righi, who, though his father left him a good fortune to begin with, kept on getting richer and richer, till he had bought up all the mines and all the olive-grounds, and all the vineyards and mulberry-trees that were to be sold for miles round—yours among the rest.”

“That too?”

“Yes; and I often felt tempted to envy him, but I never did. One day he came to me while I was hard at work, and said, ‘You know, Pangrazio Clamer, that I am very rich;’ and I thought he didn’t need to have come and said that to me, who had all the labour in life to keep off envying him, as it was. ‘Pangrazio,’ says he, ‘I am not only rich, but I have every thing I can wish, but one thing; and if I meet any one who will do that one thing, I will take him to share my riches while I live, and make him my heir at my death. I come first to ask you.’ ‘Tell me what it is,’ says I; ‘I can’t work harder, or fare worse, than I do now, whatever it may be—so I’m your man.’ ‘Well, then, it’s this,’ he continued. ‘My one great unfulfilled wish through life has been to give the Devil three good kicks, as some punishment for all the mischief he does in the world; but I have never had the courage to make the attempt, and now I have got old, and past the strength for adventures, so if you will do this in my stead, I will put you in my shoes as far as my money is concerned.’ Of course, I answered I would set out directly; and, as he had made the road by which men get hither his study, for this very purpose, all through his life, he could give me very exact directions for finding the Devil’s abode.

“But, to get here, I had to traverse the lands of three different sovereigns; and, as I had to go to them to get my passport properly in order, they learned my destination, and each gave me a commission on his own account, which I accepted, because if I should fail with Eligio Righi’s affair, I should have a chance of the rewards they promised me to fall back on.”

“And what were these three commissions?”

“The first king wants to know why the fountain which supplied all his country with such beautiful bright water has suddenly ceased to flow. The second king wants a remedy for the malady of his only son, who lies at the point of death, and no physician knows what ails him. And the third king wants to know why all the trees in his dominions bear such splendid foliage, but bring forth no fruit.”

“And you expect me to help you in all this?” said the Devil’s wife.

“Well, for our old acquaintance’ sake, and the bond of our common home,” said Clamer, “you might do that; and for the sake of the nearer bond that might have united us.”

“I would have refused you all you ask, to punish you for going back to that story,” said Giuseppa, “but I really desire to see old Luxehale get a good drubbing, just now, for he has been very tiresome to-day. I daren’t give it him myself, but I’ll help you to do it, if you have a mind.”

“Never mind the motive, provided you give me the help,” replied Clamer. “And will you help me to trick him out of the answers for the three kings, as well as to give him a good drubbing?”

“That will I; for it will be good fun to counter-act some of his mischief.”

“How shall we set about it then?”

“I am just going to bed; he is asleep already. You must conceal yourself in the curtains, and bring a big stick with you; and when I make a sign, you must, without a moment’s notice, set to and give it him. Will that do for you?”

“Admirably! Only, remember, I have to do it three times, or I shan’t get my guerdon.”

“And do you think you are certain of getting all Eligio Righi’s fortune?” said Giuseppa, earnestly.

“Oh, as sure as fate!” replied Clamer; “he’s a man who never goes back from his word. But I must fulfil all he says with equal exactness.”

“And when I’ve helped you with half your labour, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have half your guerdon.”

“Nor I! You’ll always find me faithful and true; and what I offered you when I was poor, I offer you with equal heartiness when I have the prospect of being the richest man in Trient.”

“When you have done all you have to do, then, will you take me back with you?”

“Nothing would make me happier than your consent to come with me. And when I’m rich enough to be well fed and clothed, you’ll find I’m not such a bad-looking fellow, after all.”

“Ah, you’ll never be so handsome as Luxehale! But then I don’t half trust him. One never knows what trick he may take into his head to play one. I think I should have more confidence of being able to manage you.”

“Then it’s agreed; you come back with me?”

“Yes; I believe it’s the best thing, after all. And now we must make haste and set about our business.”

She crept up-stairs with soft steps, and Clamer still more softly after her. The Devil was sleeping soundly, and snoring like the roar of a wild beast. Giuseppa stowed Clamer away in the curtains, and went to bed too. When she heard what she reckoned one of the soundest snores, she lifted the bed-curtains, and whispered, “Now’s your time!”

Clamer did not wait to be told twice, but raised his stick, and, as Giuseppa lifted the bed-clothes, applied it in the right place, with a hearty good will.

Luxehale woke with a roar of pain, and Clamer disappeared behind the curtains.

“Forgive me, dear lord!” said Giuseppa; “I had such a strange dream, that it woke me all of a start, and I suppose made me knock you.”

“What did you dream about?” said Luxehale, thinking to catch her at fault; but Giuseppa had her answer ready.

“I thought I was travelling through a country where all the people were panting for want of water, and as I passed along, they all gathered round me, and desired me to tell them, what had stopped their water from flowing, saying, ‘You are the Devil’s wife, so you must know!’ and when I couldn’t tell them, they threw stones at me, so that I seemed to have a hard matter to escape from them.”

The Devil burst out into a loud laugh, which absorbed all his ill-humour, as he heard this story, and Giuseppa made a sign to Clamer to pay attention to what was to follow.

“You see, you never tell me any thing,” she continued, pretending to cry; “I never know any thing about your business, and, you see, all those people expected I knew every thing my husband knew, as other wives do.”

“I didn’t suppose you’d care to know any thing about it,” replied Luxehale, trying to soothe her; “and really there was nothing to tell! It’s an every-day matter. There was a pilgrimage chapel near the city, to which the people used to go in procession every year; and as long as they did that, I never could get past to get at the fountains. But now they have left off the procession, and so I got by, and had the fun of stopping the water.”

Clamer winked to Giuseppa, to show he understood what the remedy was, and Giuseppa said no more, so that the Devil very soon fell off to sleep again.

When he began to snore again very soundly, she lifted the bed-clothes, and made the agreed sign to Clamer. Clamer came forward, and applied his stick with a hearty will in the right place, and the Devil woke with a shout of fury.

“Oh, my dear husband!” cried Giuseppa, deprecating his wrath by her tone of alarm; “I have had another dreadful dream!”

“What was it?” growled the Devil.

“I thought I was going through a great city where all the people were in sorrow, and sat with ashes on their heads. And when they saw me pass, they said they sat so because the king’s son was at the point of death, and no one could tell what ailed him, and all the doctors were of no use; but that as I was the Devil’s wife, I must know all about it. When I couldn’t tell them, they began pelting me; as they kept putting fresh ashes on their heads each had a pan of fire by his side, in which they were making, and they actually took the red-hot cinders out of the pan of fire to pelt me with, and my clothes were all on fire; so you may believe if I tried to run away fast—and it is no wonder if I knocked you a little.”

The Devil’s fancy was more tickled than before with this story, and he laughed fit to split his sides, as she proceeded, so that he forgot all about the beating.

“It is all very well for you to lie there and laugh, but you wouldn’t have laughed if you had been treated as I was, I can tell you!” sobbed Giuseppa. “And it’s all because you never tell me any thing, as other husbands do.”

“Bosh!” answered the Devil; “I should have enough to do, if I told you all the stories like that! Why, it’s the commonest thing in the world. That king’s son was a good young man, obedient to all the advice of his elders. But after a time he got with bad companions, who introduced him to some of my people. After they had played him a number of tricks, one day one of them took into his head to give him a stunning good illness, to punish him for some luck he had had against them at cards. And that’s the history of that—there’s nothing commoner in life.”

Giuseppa made a sign to know if Clamer had heard all he wanted to know, and, finding he was satisfied, let the Devil go to sleep again.

As soon as he began to snore very soundly, Giuseppa lifted the bed-clothes, and Clamer once more applied his stick. Whether by getting used to the work and therefore less nervous, he really hit him harder, or whether the previous blows had made the Devil more sensitive, he certainly woke this time in a more furious passion than ever, and with so rapid a start that it was all Clamer could do to get out of his sight in time.

“What have you been dreaming now?” he exclaimed, in his most fearful voice. “I declare, I can scarcely keep my hands off you!”

“Don’t be angry,” answered Giuseppa; “it is I who have had the worst of it. I dreamt I was passing through a country where the trees had given up bearing fruit; and when the people saw me go by, they all came round me, and said, as I was the Devil’s wife, I must know what ailed their trees; and when I couldn’t tell them, they cut down great branches, and ran after me, poking the sharp, rough points into my sides! You may believe if I tried to run away fast.”

The Devil had never had such a laugh since he had been a devil, as at this story, and the whole palace echoed with his merriment.

When Giuseppa found him once more in such good humour, she went on,—

“And why do you do such mischievous things, and make people so savage? It isn’t fair that they don’t dare to touch you and all their ill-will falls on me.”

“As it happens, it’s not my doing at all this time; at least, I didn’t go out of my way to do it for any sort of fun. It all came about in the regular way of business.”

“What do you mean?” pursued Giuseppa, who knew it was necessary to probe the matter to the bottom.

“Why, the king of that country is a regular miser. He is so afraid that any body should get any thing out of their gardens without paying the due tribute to him first, that he has built such high walls round all the orchards, and vine-gardens, and olive-yards, that no sun can get at them. And he is so stingy, he won’t pay people to dig round them and manure, and prune, and attend to the property; so how can the fruit grow? As long as he defrauds the poor people of their work, he can have no fruit. It’s not my fault at all!