was there too with the earliest, active, glad, and serviceable beyond
all others. The blooming maiden of fifteen had made a deep impression
on him; he had passed a sleepless night. The people of the castle
likewise sent for Mary, and she had once more to tell her story to
them, which was now grown quite familiar to her. The old Count and his
Lady were surprised at her good breeding; she was modest, but not
embarrassed; she made answer courteously in good phrases to all their
questions; all fear of noble persons and their equipage had passed
away from her; for when she measured these halls and forms by the
wonders and the high beauty she had seen with the Elves in their
hidden abode, this earthly splendor seemed but dim to her, the
presence of men was almost mean. The young lords were charmed with her
beauty.

It was now February. The trees were budding earlier than usual; the
nightingale had never come so soon; the spring rose fairer in the land
than the oldest men could recollect it. In every quarter, little
brooks gushed out to irrigate the pastures and meadows; the hills
seemed heaving, the vines rose higher and higher, the fruit-trees
blossomed as they had never done; and a swelling fragrant blessedness
hung suspended heavily in rosy clouds over the scene. All prospered
beyond expectation: no rude day, no tempest injured the fruits; the
wine flowed blushing in immense grapes; and the inhabitants of the
place felt astonished, and were captivated as in a sweet dream. The
next year was like its forerunner; but men had now become accustomed
to the marvelous. In autumn, Mary yielded to the pressing entreaties
of Andrew and her parents; she was betrothed to him, and in winter
they were married.

She often thought with inward longing of her residence behind the
fir-trees; she continued serious and still. Beautiful as all that lay
around her was, she knew of something yet more beautiful; and from the
remembrance of this a faint regret attuned her nature to soft
melancholy. It smote her painfully when her father and mother talked
about the gipsies and vagabonds that dwelt in the dark spot of ground.
Often she was on the point of speaking out in defense of those good
beings, whom she knew to be the benefactors of the land; especially to
Andrew, who appeared to take delight in zealously abusing them; yet
still she repressed the word that was struggling to escape her bosom.
So passed this year; in the next, she was solaced by