It may be that in the far-off future, long after the titles and prerogatives of royalty shall have been done away with and wellnigh forgotten, the virtues of this king, who is so poorly appreciated by his contemporaries, will be commemorated in some beautiful legend, like that of his favorite story of the Swan-Knight; since even now, when that chaste hero appears in the dazzling purity of his enchanted armor upon the Munich stage, one turns involuntarily to recognize his counterpart in the solitary occupant of the royal box.  E.E.

ON THE CHURCH STEPS.

CHAPTER X.

Lenox again, and bluebirds darting to and fro among the maples.  I had reached the hotel at midnight.  Our train was late, detained on the road, and though my thoughts drove instantly to the Sloman cottage, I allowed the tardier coach-horses to set me down at the hotel.  I had not telegraphed from New York.  I would give her no chance to withhold herself from me, or to avoid me by running away.  There was no time for her, as yet, to have read of the ship’s arrival.  I would take her unawares.

So, after the bountiful Nora, who presides over the comfort of her favorites, had plied me with breakfast-cakes and milk and honey, I sauntered down toward the Lebanon road.  Yes, sauntered, for I felt that a great crisis in my life was at hand, and at such times a wonderful calmness, almost to lethargy, possesses me.  I went slowly up the hill.  The church-clock was striking nine—­calm, peaceful strokes.  There was no tremor in them, no warning of what was coming.  The air was very still, and I stopped a moment to watch the bluebirds before I turned into the Lebanon road.

There was the little gray cottage, with its last year’s vines about it, a withered spray here and there waving feebly as the soft April air caught it and tossed it to and fro.  No sign of life about the cottage—­doors and windows tight shut and barred.  Only the little gate swung open, but that might have been the wind.  I stepped up on the porch.  No sound save the echo of my steps and the knocking of my heart.  I rang the bell.  It pealed violently, but there were no answering sounds:  nothing stirred.

I rang again, more gently, and waited, looking along the little path to the gate.  There was snow, the winter’s snow, lingering about the roots of the old elm, the one elm tree that overhung the cottage.  Last winter’s snow lying there, and of the people who had lived in the house, and made it warm and bright, not a footprint, not a trace!

Again I rang, and this time I heard footsteps coming round the corner of the house.  I sat down on the rustic bench by the door.  If it had been Bessie’s self, I could not have stirred, I was so chilled, so awed by the blank silence.  A brown sun-bonnet, surmounting a tall, gaunt figure, came in sight.

“What is it?” asked the owner of the sun-bonnet in a quick, sharp voice that seemed the prelude to “Don’t want any.”