fice. She sank back
powerless into her chair and closed her eyes. She could not determine
whether it was fear or happy expectation which pervaded her whole
being.

And now the footsteps ascended into the porch, and came quite near to
the window. Would a thief dare to approach these lighted windows? She
raised her eyes. He stood before her!--he, her beloved, the friend
of her heart, her thoughts, her hopes! Feodor von Brenda stood in the
doorway of the hall, and uttered softly her name. She could not rise,
her feet trembled so; and in her heart she experienced an uneasy
sensation of fear and terror. And yet she stretched her arms out to
him, and welcomed him with her looks and her smile.

And now she lay in his arms, now he pressed her firmly to his heart,
and whispered tender, flattering words in her ear.

She pushed him gently back, and gazed at him with a smile of delight.
But suddenly her look clouded, and she sighed deeply. Feodor's
brilliant Russian uniform pained her, and reminded her of the
danger he might be incurring. He read her fear and anxiety in her
countenance.

"Do not be afraid, my sweet one," whispered he gently, drawing her
into his arms. "No danger threatens us. My people are now masters of
the town. Berlin has surrendered to the Russians. _The enemy_ is now
conqueror and master, and no one would dare to touch this uniform.
Even your father must now learn to yield, and to forget his hatred."

"He will never do it," sighed Elise sadly. "You do not know him,
Feodor. His will never bends, and the most ardent prayers would not
induce him to grant that to his heart which his judgment does not
approve of. He is not accustomed to yield. His riches make him almost
despotic. Every one yields to him."

"He is the king of merchants," said Feodor, as he passed his fingers
playfully through the dark tresses of the young girl, whose head
rested on his shoulder. "His money makes him as powerful as a prince."

"That is exactly my misfortune," sighed Elise.

The colonel laughed, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead. "Dreamer,"
said he, "do you call yourself miserable because you are the daughter
of a millionnaire?"

"Millions alone do not make one happy," said she sadly. "The heart
grows cold over the dead money, and my father's heart is cold toward
his daughter. He has so many thousand other things to do and think of
besides his daughter! The whole world has claims upon him; every one
requires his advice,