ee weeks after the marriage, Lieutenant von Markwald
received a letter from his sister which induced him to write at once to
Doctor Thiel and ask him confidentially what he thought of Baron von
Linden's health, his brother-in-law evidently considered himself very
ill; for since his departure he had consulted several physicians at every
place where they stopped, even for a day, he appeared to be in very low
spirits, and utterly neglected his sister, who was so anxious about him
that she entreated her brother to come to her assistance. Dr. Thiel
hastened to answer the lieutenant that he need not be uneasy, it was
probably only an attack of hypochondria. At the same time he asked for
his brother-in-law's address, as he intended to write to him at once.

About a week after news reached the capital which spread with the
rapidity of a conflagration. Baron Robert von Linden had died suddenly
at Ischia. This was the version which reached the newspapers and the
public. But, in the court circle, it was known that the unfortunate man
had committed suicide. Frau von der Lehde had instantly suspected it,
she obtained certainty from the lips of the princess, to whom Kaethe had
telegraphed the terrible tidings at the same time she sent the message to
her brother. She hastened to Thiel, who was crushed by the event, for he
was not merely an affectionate physician to Linden, but also a loyal
friend.

"It is horrible," cried the agitated woman, as she let herself fall into
an arm-chair.

He answered only by a sorrowful gesture of the hand.

"Do you know the particulars?"

"A bullet through the head. The night of day before yesterday. In the
dressing-room beside the chamber where his wife was lying."

A pause ensued. Then Else, raising her tearful eyes to the doctor, said:

"You see, you see, this marriage was his destruction. He would be alive
and happy to-day, if he had had me at his side."

"Or me," said Thiel.

Else shook her head. "No, no. He wanted this last romance too late."

"Or despaired too soon," replied Thiel, gazing thoughtfully at the bronze
statuette of Asclepius, which stood on the writing-desk before him.

HOW WOMEN LOVE.

I.

ONE WAY.

It was the first of November, 1878. The Paris Exposition was over, and
Herr Rudolph Weltli was preparing to return to his home, Switzerland,
after spending a beautiful sunny fortnight on the Seine. He had made
the great bazaar on the Champ de Mars the