in the ravine, to which she had again retired.  On the morning of Margaret’s funeral she could be seen, pale and haggard, tottering toward the grave-yard.  The simple peasants recoiled before the ghastly figure, which, tall and trembling, with a black gown and death-white face, passed among them like a spectre.  Before she reached the church she fell senseless to the ground.  The humanity of those who observed her triumphed over their fears, and they bore her to a newly finished house hard by.

This was all the missionary could glean from his guide, as they walked swiftly toward the shed pointed out by the peasant.

They found her lying motionless upon a bed in a corner of the room.  As they entered, she opened her eyes, and, after keenly scanning the Lord of Hers, raised herself with difficulty upon her arm.  Father Omehr started.  The wild light of insanity had left her eyes, and her glance, though firm and resolute, was gentle and natural.

“Do you know me, Bertha?” said the missionary, springing trembling to the bedside.

“Oh, yes,” was the reply.  “I have been in a long, wild dream!” and she passed her hand over her high, clammy forehead.  “And I know you, Sir Albert of Hers, and I know that God has brought you here at this moment.”

The stout warrior, who never quailed before any odds, and whose self-possession was as remarkable as his valor, quivered before the mournful gaze of that weak woman.  The room seemed to reel, and he leaned against the wall for support.

“There is one other I must see—­Sandrit of Stramen.  Father, have him brought here now; there is not one moment to be lost.”

The missionary whispered a few words to a youth who was present, and the stripling passed hurriedly out.

“Have you sent for him?” she inquired.

“Yes.”

“Will he soon be here?”

“He is scarce a mile off.”

“It is well,” she continued, lifting up her large black eyes; “God has designed it all!  And now,” she resumed, after a brief pause, “we must be alone until the baron comes.”

At a signal from the missionary, Albert of Hers and the wondering peasants silently withdrew.

The half hour that elapsed before Sir Sandrit’s appearance, seemed like an age to the Baron of Hers, who in an agony of suspense paced up and down the clearing before the cottage.  At last, however, the two noblemen and Henry of Stramen were admitted.

Bertha was sitting upright in bed, supported by Father Omehr, who beckoned to Henry to assist him.  There were traces of recent tears upon her furrowed cheeks, and her form seemed to dilate as she gazed at the nobles before her.

“Listen to me, Baron of Stramen!” she began, looking full at the noble, in whom surprise was gaining a temporary mastery over grief; “listen, for it is God’s mercy that permits me to speak and you to hear!  Twenty years ago I was young and beautiful.  I was loved by your brother and by him who stands at your side.”