e said. "Now we will ride through the town where we
lived when we were children; and if the Blind Man is still alive, you
shall give him a silver crown; and if the Talking Dog is alive, I shall
claim him, for to-day I am perfectly happy and want nothing."

Aldegunda thought to herself--"We are so happy, and have so much, that I
do not like to take the Blind Man's dog from him;" but she did not dare
to say so. One--if not two--must bear and forbear to be happy even on
one's wedding day.

By-and-bye they rode under the crab-tree, but the seat was empty. "What
has become of the Blind Man?" the Mayor's son asked of a peasant who was
near.

"He died two days ago," said the peasant. "He is buried to-day, and the
priest and chanters are now returning from the grave."

"And the Talking Dog?" asked the young man.

"He is at the grave now," said the peasant; "but he has neither spoken
nor eaten since his master died."

"We have come in the nick of time," said the young man triumphantly, and
he rode to the churchyard.

By the grave was the dog, as the man had said, and up the winding path
came the priest and his young chanters, who sang with shrill, clear
voices--"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord."

"Come and live with me, now your old master is gone," said the young
man, stooping over the dog. But he made no reply.

"I think he is dead, sir," said the grave-digger.

"I don't believe it," said the young man fretfully. "He was an Enchanted
Dog, and he promised I should have him when I could say what I am ready
to say now. He should have kept his promise."

But Aldegunda had taken the dog's cold head into her arms, and her tears
fell fast over it.

"You forget," she said; "he only promised to come to you when you were
happy, if his old master were not happier first; and, perhaps--"

"I remember that you always disagree with me," said the young man,
impatiently. "You always did do so. Tears on our wedding-day, too! I
suppose the truth is that no one is happy."

Aldegunda made no answer, for it is not from those one loves that he
will willingly learn that with a selfish and imperious temper happiness
never dwells.

And as they rode away again into the green lanes, the shrill voices of
the chanters followed them--"Blessed are the dead. Blessed are the
dead."

"SO-SO."

"Be sure, my child," said the widow to her little daughter, "that you
always do just as you are told."

"Very well, Mother."

"