emulous motion of her fingers, and the short, quick heaving of her
chest, might be read the signs of a struggle that cost heavily to
subdue.

Half-concealed beneath the projection of the fireplace sat Kate Dalton
she was sewing. Although to all seeming intent upon her work, more than
once did her fingers drop the needle to wipe the gushing tears from her
eyes, while at intervals a short sob would burst forth, and break the
stillness around.

As for Hans, he seemed lost in a dreamy revery, from which he rallied
at times to smile pleasantly at a little wooden figure the same which
occasioned his disaster placed beside him.

There was an air of sadness over everything; and even the old spaniel,
Joan, as she retreated from the heat of the fire, crept with stealthy
step beneath the table, as if respecting the mournful stillness of the
scene. How different the picture from what that humble chamber had so
often presented! What a contrast to those happy evenings, when, as the
girls worked, Hans would read aloud some of those strange mysteries of
Jean Paul, or the wild and fanciful imaginings of Chamisso, while
old Dalton would lay down his pipe and break in upon his memories
of Ireland, to ask at what they were laughing, and Frank look up
distractedly from his old chronicles of German war to join in the mirth!
How, at such moments, Hans would listen to the interpretation, and
with what greedy ears follow the versions the girls would give of some
favorite passage, as if dreading lest its force should be weakened
or its beauty marred by transmission! And then those outbreaks of
admiration that would simultaneously gush forth at some sentiment of
high and glorious meaning, some godlike gleam of bright intelligence,
which, though clothed in the language of a foreign land, spoke home to
their hearts with the force that truth alone can speak!

Yes, they were, indeed, happy evenings! when around their humble hearth
came thronging the groups of many a poet's fancy, bright pictures of
many a glorious scene, emotions of heart that seemed to beat in
unison with their own. They felt no longer the poverty of their humble
condition, they had no memory for the little straits and trials of the
bygone day, as they trod with Tieck the alley beneath the lindens
of some rural village, or sat with Auerbach beneath the porch of the
Vorsteher's dwelling. The dull realities of life faded before the vivid
conceptions of fiction, and they imbibed le