ster of
the Laurenzanos. "Take the brown one, the dark one will render thee
unhappy," had said the old witch, and Lydia had become superstitious
since that terrible evening at the cross-roads on the Holtermann. The
magic words of the old woman seemed to be too true. The maiden's heart
could not free itself from the demoniacal priest, and it remained after
Paul's faithless flight, in the trusty brother's power. Quite
involuntarily, in her dreams, these innermost thoughts, still unknown
to herself assumed expression.

Above the door of the Ruprecht building where dwelt Felix, might be
seen a beauteous piece of artistic work of old German architecture,
before which Lydia had as a child often stood in delighted wonderment.
Two lovely angels' heads mutually o'ershadowed by each other's little
wings; holding in brotherly affection within a wreath of roses, a pair
of compasses, the sign of the masons. The Builder's guild had evidently
thus intended to go down to posterity. The common people however
related, that these two lovely twins had been the delight of the
architect who had built the Schloss. To have them continually at
his side he had taken them up on the scaffold, rejoicing in his two
fresh-looking courageous boys. One day however one of them stumbled and
dragged the other down with him. The architect became almost deranged,
so that the building did not proceed. Instead of looking after the
work, the sorrowful father daily made a wreath which he adorned with
white roses and carried to the cemetery near the Peter's Church where
were buried his darlings. The Emperor Ruprecht however became angry at
the length of time the building continued, and ordered the Priest, who
had buried the children to urge on the architect. He answered that all
was ready, but that in his grief he could not conceive a proper
ornament for the gateway. The Priest exhorted and consoled him to the
best of his ability; the same night the twins appeared as bright angels
to the father bringing back with them the wreath of roses which he had
laid that morning on their grave. When the architect was roused the
next morning by the light of the rising Sun, he thought of his dream,
it seemed to him that the perfume of the roses still filled his room,
and on rising, behold there lay the wreath fresh and fragrant, which he
had the previous morning laid on the grave of his little ones, and
which he had seen withered the evening before, but the white roses had