“Nay, dear Aphiz,” she would say to him, with a gentle smile upon her countenance, “let not that shadow rest upon thy brow, but rather look with the sun on the bright side of everything.  Am I not a simple and weak girl, and yet I am cheerful and happy, while thou, so strong, so brave and manly, art ever fearing some unknown ill.”

“Only as it regards thee, Komel, do I fear anything.”

“That’s true, but I should inspire thee with joy, not fear and uneasiness.”

“It is only the love I bear thee, dearest, that makes me so jealous, so anxious, so fearful lest some chance should rob me of thee forever,” he would reply tenderly.

“It is ever thus; what is there to fear, Aphiz?”

“I know not, dearest.  No one feared your gentle brother’s loss years ago, and yet one day he woke happy and cheerful, and went forth to play, but never came back again.”

“You speak too truly,” answered the beautiful girl with a sigh, “and yet because harm came to him, it is no reason that it should come to me, dear Aphiz.”

“Still the fear that aught may happen to separate us is enough to make me sad, Komel.”

“Father says, that it is troubles which never happen that chiefly make men miserable,” answered the happy-spirited girl, as she laid her head pleasantly upon Aphiz’s arm.

They stood at her father’s door in the closing hour of the day when they spoke thus, and hardly had Aphiz’s words died upon his lips when the attention of both was directed towards the heavy, dark form of a mountain-hawk, as it swept swiftly through the air, and poising itself for an instant, marked where a gentle wood dove was perched upon a projecting bough in the valley.  Komel laid her hand with nervous energy upon Aphiz’s arm.  The hawk was beyond the reach of his rifle, and realizing this he dropped its breach once more to his side.  A moment more and the bolder bird was bearing its prey to its mountain nest, there to feed upon it innocent body.  Neither Komel nor Aphiz uttered one word, but turned sadly away from the scene that had seemed so applicable to the subject of their conversation.  He bade her a tender good night, but as the young mountaineer wended his way down the valley he was sad at heart, and asked himself if Komel might not be that dove.

So earnestly was he impressed with this idea, after the conversation which had just occurred, that twice he turned his steps and resolved to seek the lofty cliff where the hawk had flown, as though he could yet release the poor dove; then remembering himself, he would once more press the downward path to the valley.

It was not to be presumed that Komel should not have found other admirers among the youths of her native valley.  She had touched the hearts of many, though being no coquette, they soon learned to forget her, seeing how much her heart was already another’s.  This, we say, was generally the case, but there was one exception, in the person of a young man but little older than Aphiz, whose name was Krometz.  He had loved Komel truly, had told her so, and had been gently refused her own affection by her; but still he persevered, until the love he had borne her had turned to something very unlike love, and he resolved in his heart that if she loved not him, neither should she marry Aphiz.