Part 2

When they arrived at the island, Don Carlos was suddenly taken ill, and just as the ship was about sailing, he breathed his last, first sending his undying love to his devoted wife, and the Moorish pearls to Lenore.

"Tell them," he said, "my last words were to bless them."

In the confusion of the first moments of their grief, the duenna stole from the room, her sallow face flushed with feverish eagerness.

"The pearls," she said, "Don Carlos was the first to touch them, he is dead! This brave hidalgo was the second, and I will be the third to hold this wonderful talisman in my hands."

"Rich, fair, and beloved!

"Can I be fair, so old as I am?

"We shall see!"

She pressed the secret spring, and pure and white as snow, large and glistening as the morning dew-drops, lay the Moorish pearls in their golden casket. She took them in her hand, and held them to the light, and it seemed as though they absorbed whole floods of sunshine. "How beautiful," she exclaimed, then suddenly she dropped them upon her lap, and pressed her hand to her heart.

What a strange, agonizing pain.

It seemed as though chains were riveted about her vitals.

"Can I be the second to touch the pearls, and forever a slave? No! no! It cannot be!

"Don Carlos the first, the hidalgo the second, I am the third.

"Rich, fair, and beloved! But this pain," and again she pressed her hands upon her heart. Slowly she replaced the pearls in the casket, and the pain passed away.

When Lenore recovered she would not look at the pearls.

"Take them away, do not mention the hated gems to me," she said, with a shudder. So the duenna kept them.

Day by day Lenore sat by the dear, sad mother, who only smiled when she looked upon the beautiful face of her child, who grew more lovely with every rising sun, at least so thought the young hidalgo. In their sorrow he never left them.

All that a devoted son could be, he was to the mother, and to Lenore he was every thing.

Very often the duenna sat alone in the garden-arbor, plying her distaff, for Lenore seldom came to her. Often she would steal a glance at the beautiful pearls, saying: "I am surely the third, why am I not rich and fair?"

"Don Carlos is dead, the hidalgo was the second, I must be the third.

"I have the pearls, the rest will follow;" then the distaff would fall from her hands, and she would dream curious day-dreams, and build castles of her own in air.

One evening, just one year after their deep grief fell upon them, the young hidalgo and Lenore persuaded the mother to walk with them on the beach.

The time had been very long and lonely to her since the sorrow-freighted ship came in, and as she sat upon a moss-covered stone, and saw the white sails of a gallant ship, winging its way to the shore, the tears filled her eyes, and, that her sorrow might not sadden the hopeful young hearts of her children (as she loved to call them), she bowed her head upon her hands, that they might not notice the grief she could not restrain, when suddenly a joyous shout from Lenore sent a warm thrill through her heart, and the blood danced through her veins with renewed life.

"The dear papa," cried Lenore, and sure enough, the proud form of Don Carlos was before them.

One moment and the happy wife was folded to the warm, true heart of her returned husband, and Lenore clung to his arm, weeping for joy.

Once more light and happiness dawned upon the Buenna Vineyard, with the return of the loved husband and father. How beautiful home looked to the wanderer, as he sank into his own chair, upon the vine-covered piazza. His grateful wife sat beside him, and Lenore stood leaning upon his chair.

"How tall you have grown, my daughter," he said, looking proudly upon the young maiden, just blooming into womanhood; "but where are the pearls, my darling?"

"I have never seen them," said Lenore, "how could I think of pearls and you; dear papa, gone!" And again and again she kissed his bronzed cheek.

"Call the duenna," said the mother, smiling, "we must see the pearls." So Lenore called the duenna from her dreaming in the garden.

"Don Carlos returned! Not dead!" exclaimed the old woman, while her heart stood still with fear, as she entered the room pale as death, and trembling with an unknown dread.

"The pearls," said Don Carlos, after a kind greeting, to which her palsied tongue refused a response.

She gave them to him with a trembling hand, and, as he pressed the secret spring, the golden casket opened, and there lay the wonderful Moorish pearls, pure and white as snow, and large and shining as the dew-drops in the flush of morning.

"Take them, Lenore, daughter," said the happy father, fondly, and the fair taper fingers of the maiden clasped the luminous treasure.

The duenna's eyes were fixed upon her.

How beautiful she grew with pleasure. Her dark eyes soft as a gazelles, were radiant with light, her red lips parted with smiles, and the Moorish pearls adding a new luster to her purple hair.

"Can she be the third?" thought the duenna, and in a voice husky with emotion she gasped: "Don Carlos, those pearls! How came you by them? What hand has touched them?"

"Tell us all, dear papa," said Lenore, not noticing the duenna's agitation, in her own delight.

"In all Spain," said the father, "I could not find the pearls, but I heard of them from an old Moor.

"He said they were lost near the shore of a distant island, and he promised to procure them for me for a large reward, which I agreed to give him; so we sailed for the island, but I became so ill at sea that when we arrived I was confined to my bed.

"At length the old Moor brought me this beautiful casket, and pressing the spring I saw the pearls, radiant with all their snowy whiteness, but I was so ill I did not take them out, and when I handed them back to the old Moor to place in my cabinet, the pearls fell out into his hands, and flooded the whole room with light. Great Allah! exclaimed the old man, in terror, and, as he replaced them and closed the casket, he fell down and expired instantly.

"The physician said he died of heart disease. I grew much worse, and fearing I should die, confided the pearls to the care of our friend, who brought them to you, and soon after I fell into a swoon so like death that all thought me dead, and the ship sailed without me.

"The white sails were not hidden from sight when I began to recover, but a long, lingering illness detained me from home, but thank God I am with you at last, darlings, well and happy."

"And now that my dear papa is home again, I can enjoy the pearls, the beautiful pearls," said Lenore, still toying with the luminous gems.

"More beautiful in your hair than in the golden casket," said the admiring hidalgo.

"The señorita was the second to touch them," he continued, "since Boabdil's minion consigned them to their hiding-place."

"No, I was the second, shrieked the duenna, clasping her hands to her heart, where the chains of servitude were riveted.

"Always a slave," she moaned, as they bore her from the room, flushed with the delirium of fever.

For many days she lay prostrate upon a bed of sickness, but when at last she recovered the evil spirit had passed from her forever.

She was kind and gentle, ready to serve any one, but especially the master.

"I am but the servant of servants," she would say. "I will do my duty in the station whereunto I am called. God have mercy upon my soul."

Don Carlos and the mother lived to see Lenore wife of the handsome hidalgo, and the mother of a maiden beautiful as herself, whose purple hair often glowed in the luminous rays of the wonderful Moorish pearls.

"THE TWO GOOD-FOR-NOTHINGS."

A long time ago, in a little village on the banks of the Rhine, lived the young boy Karl, in the low, rude cottage of his father, Hans Heidermann, the carpenter.

Karl was the second son in a family of ten children, all boys but the baby in the cradle—the little, blue-eyed Ethel, the pet and darling of the household.

The good Lord had sent to the cottage plenty of children, "the poor man's blessing;" and in their youthful days, when Hans and his good wife were strong and full of hope, the little ones were greeted with smiles of love.

Later in life, when the mother found that, with all her patient labor, the tiny feet must go unclad, and eat little as she possibly could, the supper was not only poor but very scanty, the boy Julian and baby Ethel were wept over at their coming, yet with tears so full of compassionate tenderness that the mother's love shone through them more sweetly than through the sunshine of smiles that dawned upon their first baby.

The youthful days of Karl were passed in toil, and though the natural joyousness of childhood would sometimes bubble up and overflow, the mantle of care fell upon him very early.

When he was only sixteen, he was quite a man in his ways, and able to contribute not a little to the comfort and support of the family, and he, more than all the rest, was ever ready to lighten the burden of the mother's weariness and cares.

When Karl was eighteen years old, he was guilty of a great piece of folly for a poor boy, though I am sure he was not to blame. It was the pretty, violet eyes and sweet voice of the young maiden Chimlein that made him so much in love with her.

Poor, foolish Karl! with nothing but his handsome boyish face and honest German heart to give her, even his strong willing hands still belonged to the father and mother.

Poor, foolish Karl, to be in love! But he was very hopeful! The brothers were growing strong, and even now all but the little Julian, could add something to the family store. What brightness, wealth, and happiness might not two years bring them all.

One evening, about this time, Karl received from the merchant, his employer, for a successful month's work, quite a present over his usual pay, as a reward for his faithful industry.

He was very happy as he started homeward, and, looked smilingly upon his patched clothes, thinking "Now I shall be able to buy the new suit I need so much, and I can take Chimlein the beautiful, to hear the rare music that she loves so well, and she will store it away in her bird-like throat, and some day it will gush forth in loving songs in our own cottage home." Then he sung gay snatches of his favorite opera—for even the peasantry of Germany are born musicians—and, looking at the sunshine as it danced upon the bright waters of the Rhine, he blessed the good Lord for the brightness, beauty, and happiness of life.

Soon the shadow of the cottage fell upon him, and he entered to find tears dimming the eyes of the mother as she went silently about her work. She wiped them hastily away, but Karl had seen them, and all his bright dreams melted at the sight of the dear, pale face, shadowed by age and sorrow.

Throwing his strong arm round her, he softly said, "What ails thee, mother?"

Then she told him how an old debt of the father's became due on the morrow, and how she feared, she knew not what, because there was no money to pay it.

So Karl put his hand into his bosom and drew forth the treasure that was to bring him so much happiness, and placing it in his mother's hand, said: "Take it, mother, dear;" and before she could reply, he had gone out into the soft, summer air, down to the banks of the dear Rhine River.

The sun had sunk in clouds of crimson and gold, and the gray twilight cast its cold shadows upon the waters, and Karl's heart had grown very heavy as he thought of the sweet-voiced Chimlein, and her disappointment. "But 'twas for mother," he said. "Poor mother, how pale she looked, her eyes wet with tears."

He walked on, silently, looking with dreamy eyes out of the dim present into the untried future.

One year after, he stood by the mother's new made grave, and, while his heart swelled with sorrow, he blessed God that he had been to his care-burdened mother a loving and dutiful son. And then came the thought of the old clothes that, for her sake, he had worn so long, and he could have kissed the dear old clothes, grown so patched and threadbare, for her sake, the _dear, dead mother_.

After the mother's death, the family was broken up.

The little Ethel and Julian went away to another part of the country, to live with a good aunt, who was very kind to them, and the younger brothers went to trades, and only Karl and the father remained at the cottage. Then it was that Karl brought home the sweet-voiced Chimlein to be the angel of his house.

"The dear father is lonely," she would say, as with her quiet words, and small, white hands she smoothed his pathway down the rugged vale of dim old age.

The good God only lends us the presence of his angels for a short time, and in the spring-time he called Chimlein from her home by the blue Rhine River, to her home in heaven, the golden, and from the heart of Karl, her husband, to the bosom of the blessed Mother.

The cottage was very dark and lonely after Chimlein went to heaven. Karl went out to his work with a sad heart, and returned in silence to sit by his desolate hearth-stone, till the fire went out in the midnight darkness.

The father (now an old man with locks white as the driven snow) sat during the long, summer days by the little willow cradle, and sang in the shrill treble of broken and sorrowful old age, to Chimlein's little one; or, when the babe was full of playful innocent life, he would take it down to the banks of the clear Rhine, to revel in the sunshine and listen to the voice of the waters.

To the old man's desolate heart, that child was a priceless blessing, and in his eyes she was the most beautiful of all the good Lord's fair creation.

When she was three months old, he dressed her in snowy white, and bore her to the baptismal font, where she received the name of Gretchen, though to the grandfather she was always "mein schönes kind" (my beautiful child).

A circle of golden curls played around her baby face, and the violet eyes of her mother shone clearly in the fair light of the morning, as she looked steadily into the face of the priest who took her in his arms and blessed her with the baptismal water which consecrated her "a child of God and an heir of heaven."

The old grandfather gazed wonderingly at the child, as in the softened light of the sunshine stealing through the cathedral windows she looked so like the rare picture of the divine Christ-child.

"She is even now a bird of Paradise," whispered tremblingly the old man, as he received the little one from the priest's hands. "The angel soul is looking out from her violet eyes, and heaven's blessed light falls like a halo of glory upon her golden curls."

With a shudder, the old man sunk away into the shadow until the sunshine had faded from her hair, and rocking her to and fro, while a master's hand sent rare, glorious music from the grand cathedral organ, he watched the violet eyes till they closed, and the rich brown lashes rested upon her fair baby cheeks. One little soft hand was tangled in the old man's beard, and the tone of her gentle breathing told him that his darling slept the pure, refreshing sleep of healthful infancy, and once more his heart was calm and happy.

Karl loved the beautiful child; but when he looked at her, and saw her mother's eyes reflected in the dewy light of hers, a deep sadness filled his heart, and often he turned quickly away to hide the glistening of his eyes, and drew his rough hand over his face to drive back the unshed tears.

"Poor little motherless thing," he would say: "If it was only a boy!" "Poor little daughter, ever too much you will need a mother's care." Then he would snatch up his hat and go out to the banks of the blue Rhine, where the body of the angel Chimlein rested. To the man, nothing is so dear as the pure, true woman of his heart.

Two summers had passed over the head of the little Gretchen, making her more charming than ever, with all the winsome ways of her innocent childhood.

The grandfather was becoming every day more infirm in body, and every day brought his mind nearer to the innocent child who was the darling of his heart. Nearer and nearer to heaven, the golden, he walked with faltering steps through the darkened vale of second childhood.

When at home, Karl would watch sorrowfully over these two children, the old man and the beautiful child; but when he was away at his work, they were a constant care upon his mind.

In passing his neighbor's door, Karl often noticed Elizabeth, the thrifty daughter of the house. He saw that her restless hands were always busy; not one speck of dust escaped her sharp, black, eye.

Though her voice was loud and shrill (Karl knew too well he could never find another sweet-voiced Chimlein) he hoped her heart was kind, and he thought she might take better care of the father and the little Gretchen than he could. So he asked her to be his child's mother, his father's daughter, and the mistress of his cottage.

Elizabeth felt keenly that he was no ardent lover; but he was her first, and might be her last; so with no more intense feeling than a desire to secure a home for herself and a provider for her wants, she consented to be his wife, and become mistress of the cottage.

Elizabeth was full of energy, and after she went to the cottage there was a great change in its appearance. Every nook and corner was made thoroughly clean, the rents in the curtains were neatly mended, the bits of carpet were all washed and spread down upon the sanded floor, and there was always a clean shirt for Karl when he came from his work, and a button, was never known to be missing.

Altogether there was not a more notable housewife in all the burg than Elizabeth. But her shrill voice grated sharply upon the sensitive ear, and, worse than all, it seems as though the old grandfather and the little Gretchen were always in her way.

From morning till night the old grandfather had a vile pipe in his mouth, and the smoke made every thing black and dirty. She then would look at her clean curtains and whitewashed walls, and frown. He was continually dropping the ashes about, and sometimes would even spit upon the floor, which was too much for mortal woman to bear; and then there was no end to the trouble the little Gretchen made her in a thousand ways.

To think that she, who always disliked children, should be obliged to take care of another woman's child!

At first she would bite her lips and choke down the angry words that strove for utterance, but in her heart she called them "THE TWO GOOD-FOR-NOTHING'S," and would cast such angry looks upon them that in their shrinking sensitiveness they would steal away to the banks of the blue Rhine and try to forget Elizabeth and their trouble. But alas! poor unfortunates! too often they would return with torn or soiled clothes, and then the mistress would be more angry than ever.

It was only for a short time that Elizabeth confined her anger to black looks. Before she had been in the cottage two months, her sharp voice would ring its angry changes upon the _Two Good-for-Nothings_, as she now loudly called them, and both the grandfather and little Gretchen went about silent and trembling, like two culprits who feared detection and punishment.

She would have them to go to bed before Karl returned in the evening, for she was very careful to conceal her unkind treatment of them from him. He was obliged to go very early in the morning to his work, and saw but little of them, and as the cottage looked clean and cheerful when he returned, he thought they were well cared for.

Sometimes, for whole days the old grandfather and the little one would wander on the banks of the beautiful Rhine River, and in her sweet infantile voice she would rival the songs of the birds.

So wonderful a development of voice in the child was a marvel to all who heard her, and the fond old man's heart swelled with pride as the neighbors gathered round to hear her sing. Every one loved them but the mistress, and they were always sure of a welcome at the noon-day meal from any of the neighbors. The silver-haired old man was "grandfather" to them all, and the little child "mein schonest liebes."

The mistress did not object to their long strolls from home. "The Good-for-Nothings" were only in the way; it did her good to have them out of her sight a few minutes; while they, poor innocents, escaped many a rough scolding, and the little child many a blow from the hard hand of the mistress.

How they enjoyed those days together.

As Gretchen grew older, and the grandfather more feeble, she would lead him by the hand and run to the neighbor's for a coal to light his pipe, saying: "The dear grandfather must smoke." Then they would sit down on the green bank, and with the smoke-wreaths curling above his head the grandfather would tell old legends and fairy tales to half the children in the village, and "little Golden Hair," as the children called her, would sing to them.

One day, when Gretchen was about five years old, they returned from their accustomed stroll to find a new inmate at the cottage, and Karl called them to look at the little sister baby. The old grandfather looked sad, for he could not love the mistress's child as he did Chimlein's, and he feared it would bring yet greater trouble to his little Gretchen. But the unsuspecting child opened her large violet eyes full of wonder and delight, thinking, as all little girls do, there is nothing in the world so pretty as a baby.

But that baby was her destiny.

No more days by the dear Rhine River. No more songs with the village children, or fairy tales told under the waving trees with the fresh air blowing round them. But the little, golden-haired child became a fixture by the cradle. The baby would not go to sleep unless soothed by Gretchen's voice, which now was oftener full of subdued pathos than childish joyousness.

The grandfather, too, had his hours of care and watching. But day by day he was drawing nearer the dark river that rolled between him and heaven the golden. His earthly love seemed all centered in Gretchen. Karl he seldom saw except on Sundays, and then, in his rough manhood, though he was always kind to his father, he seemed a great way off with the harsh Elizabeth for his wife.

Only Golden Hair, knew and shared the old man's cares and sorrows. At night she slept in his bosom and always rested in his heart.

The two "Good-for-Nothings!"

Alike sufferers from the mistress's harshness, how they loved each other, though they dared not show it when the mistress was near. She was angry at such nonsense, as she termed their holy affection.

The winter after Gretchen was six years old, was very cold and stormy. The blue waters of the Rhine had grown black and sullen. In the cottage times were not improved. The baby was teething. The mistress was not well, and visited her accumulating ills upon the poor Good-for-Nothings.

She would not have allowed Gretchen to sing at all, but for the baby, of whom the little girl now had nearly the whole charge. And very thin and pale she looked, with the rich flush of her golden curls falling upon her white forehead, and her violet eyes large and languid; but her little hands were red and hard, poor little hands that had so much to do.

Child as she was, the woman was growing in her heart, and with tenderest care she watched the grandfather who had no one but her who understood his sensitive feebleness, and loved to care for him. Many times in the day, when the mistress was out of the room, she would put her little hand in his, and kiss him. Only the sick and sorrowful know how sweet was the pressure of that loving hand.