In the silent meditation of the poor invalid there might be read a last adieu to the blue wave, the green wood, the distant prospects which so often had occupied her reverie.  The warm summer breeze, which played in her hair, the clear sky, the whole tapestry of nature she was about to leave, instinct as it was with poetic fancy.  By her half open lips, by her wondering eye, she bade adieu to the scenes amid which she had lived, to the flowers which smiled on her as a sister, and where birds sang their matin lays as if she had been one of their kindred.

When he reached the parsonage, her father stopped to chat with the old pastor.  Ebba took Alete by the hand, and hurried her into the chamber.

“Dear sister,” said she, “I wished to see you again.”

“Again, Ebba—­I hope you will, and for many a year.”

“Yes—­yes—­but not here, in another world.”  She grew pale as she spoke.

“What an idea!” said Alete.  “I was so agreeably surprised by your visit.  Have you come to distress me?”

As she spoke, Alete covered her face, now suffused with tears, with her hands.

“Excuse me, Alete.  I was wrong to give way so.  Let us talk of something else.”

“Yes, yes,” said Alete, smiling amid her tears.  “Has anything been heard of Ireneus?”

“Ireneus is—­dead!” said Ebba sadly.

“Dead!” exclaimed Alete; “how so?”

“I know he is.  I saw him last night.”

“Ah, I have sometimes dreamed of a person’s death, whom on the next morning I met perfectly well.”

“I tell you I saw him struck by a ball in the breast, the blood running from the wound, looking staringly around, and smiling in the agonies of death.”

“Madness! my dear Ebba,” said Alete, with a burst of strange unnatural laughter, for in spite of herself she was impressed by the words of her sister.  “Come, Eric and his father expect us.  Let us pass our evening happily together, and shake off all these presentiments, which I pray to God may never be realized.”

“Yes, come,” and attempting to look gay, she said, “Madness! we will see.”

During the next week, a letter from the mother of Ireneus informed them that the young officer had died on the very day of Ebba’s dream, of a wound received at the siege of the Castle of Penissiere.

Ebba soon died, pronouncing the names of her father and sister, who wept at her bedside.  Her last breath uttered one other name, that of Ireneus.

* * * * *

POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.

The following pieces by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, have never before, we believe, been printed in this country.

THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS.