GOTTLIEB ON THE WATCH.

The heat of the day had been followed by the pleasant coolness of an August evening.  The hands of the clock pointed to the hour of ten, and Gottlieb, who had been walking during the entire evening in the neighborhood of the little red cottage, began to think that his uncle Fabian had in all comfort reached his home by another road.

“It is so quiet in the cottage,” thought he, “that I think they have all retired.”

He glanced stealthily over the lilac hedge towards Magde’s window.  The entire valley was bathed in moonlight, and the moonbeams glanced directly through the window panes of Magde’s apartment, with such vivid brightness that Gottlieb was undecided how to act.

Soon, however, he resolved to convince himself of the true state of affairs, that he might be prepared if his uncle should arrive.

He gradually made an opening in the hedge and having found his way clear before him he advanced to the window which, as the weather was warm, was secured only by a small cord.  He glanced through the window, and a beautiful picture met his gaze.  In this chamber, the husband and wife’s little temple, the moonlight was brilliantly reflected from Ragnar’s brightly polished hunting and fishing implements which, neatly arranged, were hung against the walls.

At the opposite side of the room, a much worn sailor’s hat, commonly called a tarpaulin, was balanced upon the point of a fishing rod, and beneath this trophy was placed a small side board, the open doors of which disclosed a number of shelves laden with gilt edged drinking vessels of white and blue china; a set of rose colored tea-cups, and several polished silver plated mugs.  A few uncommonly excellent specimens of carving in wood, decorated one of the shelves, and another shelf contained several articles of jewelry which Magde had received both before and after she was married.  All these little valuables Magde had gathered together, after she had put the children to bed, in the hope that she might find some few articles among them that would save her from disposing of the cow.

But her search, undoubtedly, had proved fruitless, for Magde’s ornaments were made almost entirely of bronze.

Seated in a chair with her hand resting upon the cradle, Magde was now sleeping soundly.

She had been called, probably, while she was engaged in assorting her little treasures, to attend to the wants of her infant, and overcome by fatigue had unwillingly submitted to the power of that consoler of human grief, sleep.  Her face was turned towards the window, and the moonlight illumined her entire figure, which was rendered more prominent by the fact that the cradle stood in the centre of the room.  She was still attired in the garments she had borrowed, and her brown hair, fell in two long braids over her loose white sleeves, from whence they dropped upon the face of the sleeping child, while Magde’s elbow was resting upon the little pillow.