begged him to forgive her for any foolish things she might have said the evening before, and entreated him in an agitated tone to pray for the welfare of her soul.  She then rose, kissed her foster-parents, and thanking them for all the goodness they had shown her, she exclaimed, “Oh, I now feel in my innermost heart, how much, how infinitely much, you have done for me, dear, kind people!” She could not at first desist from her caresses, but scarcely had she perceived that the old woman was busy in preparing breakfast than she went to the hearth, cooked and arranged the meal, and would not suffer the good old mother to take the least trouble.

She continued thus throughout the whole day, quiet, kind, and attentive—­at once a little matron and a tender bashful girl.  The three who had known her longest expected every moment to see some whimsical vagary of her capricious spirit burst forth; but they waited in vain for it.  Undine remained as mild and gentle as an angel.  The holy father could not take his eyes from her, and he said repeatedly to the bridegroom, “The goodness of heaven, sir, has intrusted a treasure to you yesterday through me, unworthy as I am; cherish it as you ought, and it will promote your temporal and eternal welfare.”

[Illustration:  FRIEDRICH BARON DE LA MOTTE-FOUQUE.]

Toward evening Undine was hanging on the knight’s arm with humble tenderness, and drew him gently out of the door where the declining sun was shining pleasantly on the fresh grass and upon the tall slender stems of the trees.  The eyes of the young wife were moist, as with the dew of sadness and love, and a tender and fearful secret seemed hovering on her lips—­which, however, was disclosed only by scarcely audible sighs.  She led her husband onward and onward in silence; when he spoke she answered him only with looks, in which, it is true, there lay no direct reply to his inquiries, but a whole heaven of love and timid devotion.  Thus they reached the edge of the swollen forest-stream, and the knight was astonished to see it rippling along in gentle waves, without a trace of its former wildness and swell.  “By the morning, it will be quite dry,” said the beautiful wife, in a regretful tone, “and you can then travel away wherever you will, without anything to hinder you.”

“Not without you, my little Undine,” replied the knight, laughing; “remember, even if I wished to desert you, the church, and the spiritual powers, and the emperor, and the empire, would interpose and bring the fugitive back again.”

“All depends upon you, all depends upon you,” whispered his wife, half weeping and half smiling.  “I think, however, nevertheless, that you will keep me with you; I love you so heartily.  Now carry me across to that little island that lies before us.  The matter shall be decided there.  I could easily indeed glide through the rippling waves, but it is so restful in your arms, and, if you are to cast me off, I shall have sweetly rested in them